


what's yours is ours

by delurks



Series: beyond the borderlands [12]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe, Borderlandscast, Burns, Cannibalism, Domestic, Electrocution, Friendship, Gen, Guns, Surgery, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-07-28 10:32:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 106,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7636765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delurks/pseuds/delurks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>all stories have a beginning, a middle and an end. not all stories have to have a hero. you can have multiple heroes. they don’t all necessarily have to be ‘pure of heart’ heroes, mind you. they just have to know what they’re doing or can make it up as they go along (which take considerably less skill that you’d think), and think it’s the right thing to do. </p><p>whether or not it qualifies as what other people think what’s ‘right’ is entirely optional.</p><p>this is a story told in three parts, of how a werewolf, a pyromaniac and a technician journeyed to pandora as budding vault hunters by using their con artist talents. but of course, it’s hat corp., so their goals and the greater good don’t necessarily overlap until push comes to shove, and that’s when the <i>real</i> fun begins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. pyrogenesis.

**Author's Note:**

> bang bangs and punching abound. also be mindful of starvation, self-harm, suicide, intentionally setting someone on fire plus the aftermath of that. it’s hatfilms we’re talking about here.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is the magical story of how hat corp. came to be. while the word ‘magical’ is used, it is used loosely to describe events. there are no puppies, rainbows and unicorns to be found in this story. instead, you’re saddled with a werewolf, a pyromaniac and a technician, which is as good as it gets. 
> 
> the story begins when the three magically end up sharing a run-down apartment for several months. see, it’s ‘magical’ in the loosest sense.

In any given universe, there are dream jobs and then, there are  _ jobs _ . By default, the latter is what most jobs fall under. Save in exceptional circumstances, pizza delivery is very much classified as ‘jobs’. Unless the person nurses a passion for delivering pizza. The job itself is mutually agreed upon to be one of the most soul-sucking, thankless but ‘paid well enough to skate on by’ jobs to exist within the six galaxies.

At the moment, the person delivering pizzas to one Eden-3, apartment sixty-eight would much rather be hosting a talk show. Demanding circumstances such as student loans, bills and living expenses steered them down this road instead.

The road trails off from a pleasant, orderly suburban block into a place that everyone pegged as ‘the most likely place to wake up after a night’s hardcore partying and find out that you have one kidney missing’.

A hurried check of the delivery address directs them straight at the epicenter of lawlessness. Even the dented streetlights (their lightbulbs long since stolen) loom menacingly, backed by the equally shady buildings and streets.

Swallowing thickly, the courier turns their hover bike’s headlights up to the maximum. The eye blistering beam of light sends a few rats (was that an extra limb on one?) scurrying into the dumpsters lining the entrance. Screw the hefty fine for blinding someone permanently, not getting jumped is infinitely preferable to setting one foot into the block without a safety light of some sort.

They proceed forwards, holding their breath to avoid inhaling any particles emanating from the overflowing trash bins. There could be a dead bodies hidden in several of the oddly-shaped bulging bags. With difficulty, the courier averts their darting eyes towards the front, both side mirrors pointing back the way they came. Shadows watch them pass, idling for now.

It’s not until reaching the other end without any incident that they speed up. Making a racket or a spectacle of a light shot is intentional, however suicidal it is. It’s a bit like waving a bit of steak when surrounded by starving, feral dogs. Hence, if they go missing, someone will have been bound to report their last whereabouts. It’s not over yet; they must go deeper. Where the fuck is this apartment block located?

A five minute drive evokes rising paranoia the deeper they travel into the neighborhood. The apartment (taking its time to sink into the ground, one brick at a time) is a blessing in disguise. It’s safer to take their hoverbike with them rather than leave it in the open.

In this neighborhood, it’s rumoured that a car left out could be stripped down to a husk before the owner could say ‘slashed tires’. Or ‘slashed throat’.

The courier hefts up the insulated bag, grunting from the weight. Whoever had ordered eight pizzas had better cough up the money to pay for them. Risking their neck to come all this way, only to find out it’s a prank call, will incur their wrath. Their wrath will consist of taking all the pizzas home after telling their boss what’d happened. Fortunately, their boss gets it. Nobody who’s in their right mind would risk life and limb to deliver pizza.

Inside, the lobby has an underlying reek of several bodily fluids (stake urine, mostly) that the courier would rather not think about. The carpet is a ragged cloth worn to the point of appearing transparent, holes revealing the scratched wooden flooring in places. 

Boards creak forebodingly, forcing the courier to tiptoe over, one loose board at a time. Losing a foot and a kidney because of carelessness would suck. The lobby lights flicker on and off, imitating a strobe light. Their shoes will have to be thrown into a six foot deep hole (at minimum) after all this.

Up ahead is the lift. It’s not a giant shock when the courier tests the button to call it down. Well, look at that, the button is gummed up. Typical. It turns out that the lift is also out of order, as per a shredded maintenance sign dangling from two of its corners on one of the doors.

Apartment sixty-eight had better be worth all the trouble. The air in the stairway is breathable, a minor consolation compared to the lobby. The lights don't flicker, instead casting the sorriest amount of light that lights could ever emit.

The courier’s out of breath by the time they yank open the fire door to the sixth floor. They shut the door behind them, dragging their feet as they scan the numbers on the apartment doors. Life resumes behind each door. The courier envies each of those people, forgetting about where they are for now.

Sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight, fucking finally. Still catching their breath, the courier raises their hand to knock- only to pause and suspiciously squint at the grimy peephole. A flash of yellow, then black draws their eyes to it, eliciting a skip of the heart.

Behind the door is scuffling reminiscent of the rats back in that alleyway. that is, rats are ten times bigger to the point of being able to stare down a peephole.

It’s now or never. The courier’s knuckles softly rap the wooden door, ignoring the perfectly functioning doorbell. Their hand’s still poised when the door’s pulled back to reveal a furry, fanged face and eyes the size of tennis balls. That is, if tennis balls are colored yellow and possessed a predatory gleam to them. The creature has to stoop to fit in the doorway. Even then, their frame fills up the whole space, larger than life.

The courier must have inhaled too much of the freakish lobby air. This isn’t happening. Reality insists otherwise.

Hot air from the creature’s face ruffles their hair. White teeth, every canine putting carving knives to shame, are bared at the courier. If the courier hadn’t began to panic and fixated on all those teeth, they’d have said that the mouth seemed to be pulled back in a pleased grin of sorts.

They’re not that far gone to the point of soiling themselves (though the idea did occur to them).

“Delivery?” The courier squeaks like they’ve got the voice of a dying rubber duck, brandishing the pizza like it’s the holiest of sacrificial offerings. “Just the pizzas,” They add, lest the creature mistakes them as being part of the order. Oh watchful deity of pizzas, if there’s ever a time to shine upon your humble workers, then this is it. If they escape this alive, they’ll stop skimping on the toppings.

A furry head leans down to sniff the extended parcel, drawing back with a satisfied air. Claws, each as big as a shark’s tooth, pluck out a bundle of notes from thin air, delicately holding them out without punching coin-sized holes in them.

The other set of claws retrieve the pizzas. The courier’s too worried about what those claws can do to bother taking the delivery bag back.

With an impatient huff that sends the courier’s hat almost flying off their head, ruffling their hair, the creature impatiently drops the notes into the courier’s hands, retreating into the apartment with the pizzas.

“Thanks.” The thanks sounds as though it’s come from a demon straight out of the depths of hell, every part of the word possessing its own guttural growl smashed together to the point of barely resembling human speech.

The courier’s screaming is muffled by the door slamming as Ross takes the pizzas indoors.

“Trott, pizzas!” He rumbles, barely managing to get his tongue and mouth to cooperate.

A wolf’s mouth and teeth posed problematic when it came to talking during that time of the month. Ross isn’t even going to try to pronounce Alsmiffy’s name, having injured himself trying to do so in the past. He swears he still has the gnarly scar on his tongue.

A scowling Trottimus barges into the hallway, half-dressed and hair dripping water, a t-shirt clutched in one hand and holding up his unbuttoned jeans with the other. Steam from the bathroom finds the hallway to be much more hospitable. It sinkS up into the ceiling to nourish the green-blue carpet of mould determinedly inching its way to the front door to spread the love.

“Alsmiffy! Why didn't you answer the door?” He shouts.

Alsmiffy emerges from the living room with a swagger. “I didn’t hear the courier knock,” is his transparent, innocent response, followed by a mean snicker. He’s dressed to go out but as Trottimus and Ross know, he’s not going anywhere tonight, not without the two hanging off his arms.

Treating the pizzas like they’re holy objects (probably also owing to his claws), Ross slides them onto the kitchen counter. Praising himself for a job well done, Ross drops onto all fours to scratch at a place behind an ear with his hind leg. He’ll probably find scattered wisps of shed hair everywhere by tomorrow when sweeping.

Trottimus glares at Alsmiffy before pressing hunger motivates him to examine the pizzas. “You didn’t even give back the bag!” He strips the bag from the pizzas, laying it aside on the counter. It can join their growing collection of abandoned takeout bags.

Ross only shoots him an irritated look, brandishing a clawed digit to say ‘do I look like I can open the bag without ripping it?’. At this observation, Trottimus fixes Alsmiffy with an accusing look. He distinctly recalls asking Alsmiffy to answer the door, not Ross.

Alsmiffy pretends that no such look is being directed at him, striding over to the pizzas to rifle through them. “Meatlovers, meatlovers, meatlovers, why are half of these  _ meatlovers _ ?” He gripes, carelessly tossing each boxed pizza aside as he searches for the  _ one _ .

Ross rumbles a word that might have been ‘mine’, returning to scratching that elusive itch plaguing his head. Trottimus marches over to fold down the lids of all the open pizza boxes.

“This one’s seafood, must be yours,” Alsmiffy mutters, shoving Trottimus’ pizza over with the air of somebody who didn’t give a single shit as to where it ended up. It almost sends another box flying off the counter from the bumper car collision. Leaning over, Ross nudges it back onto the counter with his wet nose. “Finally!” Triumphant, Alsmiffy walks off carrying his pizza, leaving Trottimus and Ross to clean up his mess.

Ross’ head swings around to glance at Trottimus. The look he’s sporting this time is ‘can you believe this asshole’. There’s no point to telling off Alsmiffy when it’ll just go through one ear and out the other.

“We’ll be lucky if we, well,  _ you _ , haven’t scared off all the takeout places,” Trottimus hisses at Ross, sending another glare at Alsmiffy’s back. Ross’ ears droop. It’s not his fault the food smelled so damn good from so far away. Trottimus sighs, taking two of the pizza boxes. “Come on, let’s eat while they’re still hot.”

Following, Ross lopes into the living room, resisting the urge to drop onto all fours to make the journey easier. Alsmiffy’s reclining on the couch, long legs taking up the whole space. All it takes is a warning growl from Ross for Alsmiffy to hastily relocate said legs before Ross can crush them by sitting down where they'd been a second ago.

There’s no room for him to squeeze in between them, so Trottimus parks himself on the cracking arm of the couch. He drops Ross’ pizza into his lap and his own onto the coffee table (that’s been missing a leg since the stars were born; or well, since that one time that they’d needed an emergency club to take down a terrier sized rat). The game Trott and Alsmiffy had been battling in is paused.

The three of them steadily munch their way through the pizzas. The television jumps between flickering and flashing between inverted colors and the game’s bright tones. It gives off the dotty impression that whoever had designed the game had been handed a palette limited to only five colors, those all being of the neon variety.

A sensory headache in Ross’ skull is about to be born. Animal eyes are not designed to watch several hours worth of electronic screens. It’s especially the case for animals who saw the whole world in murky shades of black and white. 

Ross diverts his glance to focus on finding the next slice of pizza and extracting it without his claws slicing through it, the cardboard and the table). A tattered doily trapped underneath is their combined effort to hide all the nicks.

Other smells (aside from his pizzas) crowd into his nose. For instance, Alsmiffy and Trottimus’ pizzas, enticingly powerful as to render the aroma of the wilting herb garden from the window box next door muted, knocking out the sour, pungent smell of Alsmiffy’s sweaty gloves drying out, plus all the dirty laundry moulding in the bathroom basket.

With the air of people milling about at a reception hosting an all-you-can-eat buffet, twenty or so distinct scents mingle amongst those notable ones. They’re breezing into the room from the open window. A few unwanted ones sneak in. For instance, heavy perfumes so laden with artificial scents that made Ross want to shove his nose through a cheese grater.

Heaving a sigh, Ross slides off the couch- only for Trottimus to rise, slamming the window shut for him. Ross resettles, gratefully nudging Trottimus in place of ‘thanks’. Ross’ transformations at full moon are very much an ‘itch’ he can’t help but scratch. While inconvenient, it did have its other uses.

With that, Trottimus casts the lure of nostalgia, waiting for memory to bite.

\--

“And stay out!” The landlord imperiously lobs Alsmiffy’s suitcase out after its owner. The lobby door slams shut, causing the glass panes to rattle in their frames.

Alsmiffy’s just barely stumbled to a stop, recovering on the sidewalk. The suitcase practically slams into the back of his knees like a rectangular missile, propelling him forwards, straight into a garbage bin.

It pitches forward, upturning and spilling trash onto the street. The lid flaps opens to comically thump against one side, the aroma of rotten fruit filling the air. Alsmiffy’s gas mask filters sense the disturbance, already sealing his airways off from the chemical warfare. The landlord yells about ‘vandalism’ from their position by the kitchen window.

Alsmiffy flips the bird without turning around, eliciting a splutter (like an angry gull whose morsel’s just been nicked by another gull). For good measure, Alsmiffy delivers the upturned bin a forceful kick, followed by a bitten off curse at the pain that shoots right to his big toe.

Right, so perhaps not everybody’s that enthused about him storing his stash of fireworks under the kitchen sink. Nothing in the lease forbids it, and he’d read all the fine print twice.

He hadn’t even been planning on lighting the fireworks (yet). All the fireworks are safely nestled in his suitcase. All it’d take is just one aimed at the landlord’s window, plus a light and the prick would have the show of their lives from the front seat that’s serving as their kitchen.

Alsmiffy will have to be content with knocking over the bin because the landlord is likely to get him arrested if he carries out that stunt in broad daylight. Snatching up his suitcase, a homeless Alsmiffy saunters off in the direction of a nearby cafe to browse the local ads for a new home.

Half an hour later and full of two rocket fuel cups of dank coffee, a jittery Alsmiffy is headed for one hell of a sugar crash and potential abode.

The hand-written ad had been placed rather inconspicuously in the cafe’s window. It’s a strange way to find roommates but Alsmiffy is not about to complain. Waiting until the waiters have turned away, he snatches the ad up to sabotage anyone else who might have seen it after he did. By a stroke of luck, the address is only a few blocks away, in walking distance.

When Alsmiffy rounds the corner, he expects tumbleweeds. Nope, there’s a sizeable queue forming in front of the concrete squalor that’s the apartment block. It might as well have been a midnight release (or what passes for midnight on this planet), the queue is that long. There’s even tents posted at the head of the queue.

Judging by the expression of the bearded person standing next to him, they’re thinking the exact same thing. Queues are for  _ suckers  _ and Alsmiffy is a steadfast believer of working hard to get what he wants, provided he employs every dirty trick in the book to get it and get it  _ first.  _ There’s nothing banning ‘teaming up’ in that book, per se.

“Hey,” Alsmiffy whispers to the bored figure scratching at their beard. Their hand drops.

Wide eyes noncritically take in his appearance. Alsmiffy refrains from looking down to follow their gaze. Yes, he’s dressed in a ragged suit. The gas mask is a safety measure, nothing more to it. He thinks of it is as his lab coat or his prescription glasses. People shouldn’t be so quick to judge, especially once they know what he does for a living.

It’s not like the bearded figure can say the same for their own look. All they’ve got on are beach sandals, cargo shorts and a polo shirt that is doing an abysmal job of hiding all the hair on their person. It’s as though all the hair that couldn’t fit on their head or beard is deliberately amassing on their arms, legs, including on their knuckles and toes.

“What?” The figure manages to look politely interested at being addressed. Scritch, scritch goes their fingers, right under their shirt collar.

“You waiting for a spot?” Alsmiffy inclines his head at the queue ahead of them. The queue hopefully shuffles forward. A second later, a step back is taken, apparently mistaking someone shifting as a cue for leaving the line.

“Yeah, I guess,” The figure says, trying to gauge Alsmiffy’s true intent with a searching look.

“Do you feel lucky today?” Alsmiffy has the gall to smirk. Smirking a work in progress. He’d never quite gotten the knack of having his mouth in the right shape to pull it off successfully. Maybe he’ll just stick to verbal grins. By the time he’s perfected it, maybe that’ll be the day he’ll take off his mask to show it off.

“I dunno, my fortune said I’d be safer indoors but I need a place, so that’s why I’m here.” The figure is a bit dim, judging by their conversational tone. However, Alsmiffy also believes that he’s an excellent judge of character. The figure’s stopped scratching away and is now looking properly interested. “What were you planning?”

Alsmiffy leans forward, holding up his suitcase stuffed with illegal fireworks. The grin is busted out in full force. Someone could have rounded up a horde of troublemakers with how manic it is. He tries to sound as much, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I got an idea for thinning out all those people, but I need your help.”

Here is where normal people would have declined and called the cops. Alsmiffy had been banking on making a quick escape before doubling back; police sirens tended to deter people from lining up in places, see.

The planet they’re on nurses a loathing for people standing about in more than groups of three and the queue in front of them certainly violates that.

What Alsmiffy does not expect is that the figure mirrors the grin, showing off two rows of very white and abnormally large teeth, stepping forwards. “Are you proposing what I think you’re proposing?”

“It involves fireworks,” Alsmiffy cajoles, pausing. The figure doesn’t even bat an eyelid, simply appearing keener to help. “See, they already warned me twice and third time’s a one-way trip to jail, so I need  _ you _ to set them off.”

“Where did you want me to set them off?” The figure glances at the line with a calculating air. Nobody in the queue spots them breaking off to climb up a nearby stairwell on the brink of rusting off the building they’re attached to.

Half an hour later (filled with questioning hysterical bystanders and poring over the scene of the crime), the police have come to the ‘official’ conclusion that it must have been drive-by pranksters. That said, they have an excellent idea of who might have set off the fireworks. 

They’d be hard-pressed to arrest the suspect though. Nobody had seen anybody matching Alsmiffy’s description skulking close by. 

All they’d heard had been an ominous whizzing preceding the first firework rocketing down from the heavens. In its wake are singed eyebrows, clothes and sending a few people to the hospital with first degree burns. Everybody else had the common sense to run, roll or duck out of the way before five more crackling fireworks had joined the party.

The police are still continuing to poke around the area. None of them think to check the apartment lobby, where Alsmiffy and his new best friend Djh3max (who also happened to be called ‘Ross’ for those who can’t wrap their tongues around his tongue twister of a name).

A short figure with brown hair and black beady eyes sidles in, glancing nervously at all the police carrying out their investigation outside.

They inquisitively glance at Alsmiffy and Ross, scrutinising the two. The figure arrives at the conclusion that the two aren’t with the police, approaching at a brisk walk that indicated that they’d like to be elsewhere, right now.

“You here for the apartment?” They inquire in an undertone. Alsmiffy and Ross nod. “Alright, come on up. You know, I thought there’d be more people.” They summon the lift, which arrives a second later.

The three of them file in, trying not to bump into or squish one another. The lift had been designed for two very skinny people. However with the law hanging around outside, none of them want to spotted when waiting for the next one, lest they be questioned.

The three emerge from the lift, relaxing at the distance between them and the law. The figure leads them to the door at the end of the hallway. Light streams in through a small window by the ceiling, illuminating the shabby state of the building.

“Well, here’s my place.” They eye Alsmiffy and Ross sheepishly, pausing with a hand on the door’s handle. “I forgot to tell you while we were in the lift, but only one of you can end up staying.”

Alsmiffy and Ross’ glances slide to take in one another, the air of camaraderie replaced by a spark of budding rivalry. “Oh.”

“Well then, see you later,” Ross lightly says. 

“You first,” Alsmiffy coolly says. Neither of them move to leave. It’s a silent battle of wills.

“I suppose I’ll make a decision at the end of the week,” Trottimus concludes with a shrug, pretending not to have noticed the rising tension in the air. “In the meantime, come on in.”

\--

Trottimus awakens with a jolt from the heavy knocking threatening to break his bedroom door down. He expects the knocker to recite a nursery line in an extraordinarily deep voice. He should probably stop playing horror video games before bedtime.

What he gets instead is one of his temporary roommates’ voices cheerfully announcing, “Oatmeal! Come get your oatmeal! Get it while it’s hot, hot,  _ hot _ !” The voice moves onto the next door to hammer on it as well.

A pregnant pause follows. “Piss off!” is the muffled, cranky shout laden down with grogginess.

Well, there is absolutely no way that Trottimus is going back to sleep after that rude awakening. Trottimus shoves all the sheets off the bed so that they collect in an amorphous heap. A shimmy to the edge of the bed allows him to slide off with all the slippery grace of a seal belly-flopping onto a glacier below.

A search of the wardrobe reveals a bunch of week old laundry mummifying at the very back. The resulting smell leaves a lot to be desired for.

Well, the only clothes spared the same fate are the pink booty shorts and a t-shirt with the word ‘HYPERION’ stylishly stamped across the front. The sniff test pronounces yesterday’s clothes as ‘fine to wear for the next three days, provided he doesn’t do anything too arduous’. A fleeting glance is thrown at the window.

The weather deems the trip to the laundromat safe.

Before he goes, there’s the matter of the biological hazard that’s his laundry. It’s confined to the closet for the time being. Just in case, he probably shouldn’t let his roommates get a whiff, or risk having to come up with a new ad for roommates.

Trottimus sidles out of his room, the door gripped as close as possible to his body. Amazingly, he’s squeezing himself through the gap, sucking his chest in where it feels his ribs are caving inwards.

“What is that  _ smell _ ?” Ross shouts from the kitchen, his disgust punctuating the last word.

Trottimus snaps his bedroom door shut and saunters into the kitchen as though he’s not directly responsible for the smell at all. Garbage bags are kept under the kitchen sink (as with buckets, plunger, tools, plastic bags inside plastic bags and whatever didn’t fit into the cupboard). 

Belatedly, Trottimus hopes that the smell hasn’t attached itself to him. It might have, judging by how Ross is wrinkling his nose.

“I think it’s next door’s compost,” Trottimus helpfully notes to shift the suspicion.

Ross answers with a grunt, focusing on heating up more oatmeal in a saucepan. Empty packets are strewn all over the counter. He must have found the oatmeal and decided to help himself. It’s just as well, seeing as Trottimus had bought all that oatmeal in bulk and it’d expire with only just him to eat it.

Trottimus collects all the empty packets and discards them, leaning down to grab the garbage bags and sneak back to his room.

Along the hallway, Alsmiffy slouches out of his bedroom past Trottimus. In comparison to Ross, Alsmiffy pays no attention to the sour odour permeating the air. Only one thing is driving Alsmiffy at this hour: the need to feed. RIght now, it’s pointing Alsmiffy in the direction of the kitchen.

Ross plants a mug full of coffee in front of alsmiffy, grinning. Alsmiffy’s brain cells are still laden with sleep or else he’d have noticed how Ross seems awfully pleased with his first attempt to get into his potential roommate’s good graces by making breakfast for three. Alsmiffy would have also been disgusted at the blatant early ‘sucking up’.

A spoon is in his hand. Alsmiffy blinks at it, then at Ross’ beaming face. A cup filled with coffee is pressed into his other hand. Shrugging, Alsmiffy raises said cup up to his mouth- only to forget that he’s still wearing his gas mask, thanks to sleeping in it. The coffee splashes onto his face and down his front.

“Oh,  _ hell,  _ that’s  _ hot _ !” Alsmiffy shrieks, hands flapping as he leaps away from the spill. Well, at least he no longer needs coffee.

Ross lets out a whistling noise that might have been a laugh if he hadn’t suppressed it at the last second. Behind them, Trottimus sighs and goes to fetch a towel, leaving his double layered garbage bag of laundry in the hallway. So far, so good, they’re all settling in together well.

He’s going to hate having to pick only one of them to stay.

\--

When it really came to observing others, Alsmiffy prides himself on noticing all the minute details. Alright, if he doesn’t notice it at first, he’ll notice it  _ eventually,  _ rather than never.

Here is what he’s noticed about Ross: Ross leaves the apartment around twice a month, always at nighttime and never returns until dawn.

Alsmiffy tends to stay up until the first light of the sun peeks over the horizon, owing to the nature of his work. Plus, his sleep schedule is so fucked that any attempt to shoehorn it back into any semblance of normality will just make it worse. He’d given up long ago on trying to fix it; living with it is simpler. Occasionally it proves an advantage.

Like when becoming aware that Ross’ nighttime wanderings have never really been explained by the man himself. The spilt coffee incident still rankles Alsmiffy’s chain. To call him salty is an understatement.

So the next time Ross sneaks out (Trottimus is either at work or sleeping at these hours so he has no idea about Ross’ outings), Alsmiffy decides to follow on a whim. Besides, where Ross goes nibbles at his curiosity.

Things are cordial enough between them, even if their tenancy as Trottimus’ new roommate inevitably pits them against one another. The heartwarming moment in getting the queue to split up in front of the apartment had brought them closer but not that close. Keep your friends close but your enemies closer, close enough to observe all their weaknesses.

A bead of disappointment is flicked into the gutter as Alsmiffy begins to tail Ross into the night. It’s one in the morning; Ross had devoured two and a half plates of pasta and the leftover meatballs during dinner. He also did the dishes after, hence why he left the apartment later than usual. Trottimus missed out on all that foo by ‘napping’.

Alsmiffy knows nobody else who can eat all that without throwing up. Ross also seems to never put on any amount of weight in spite of his ravenous appetite. Alsmiffy suspects that all the fat on him is really muscle doing a fantastic job of disguising itself as paddings of layered fat. Punching Ross would probably be akin to smashing your fist into a brick wall.

Ignorant of being tailed, Ross takes a left down an alley. Without needing to pause, Alsmiffy shifts into a walk that places his feet to avoid sticking out like a sore thumb, quietly treading as much as possible around all the crap that’d give him away. If forests were composed of a junk, loose garbage would have formed the leaf litter on the floor.

Alsmiffy proceeds to knock over a garbage bin, gets chewing gum stuck to his shoe that picks up a crumpled up newspaper, which loudly crinkles as he puts his foot down and slips on a suspicious stain, colliding head-first into the brick wall. It takes him a minute to get back up, plus another thirty seconds to pry the gunk off his shoe with the blunt edge of a discarded crowbar.

He hurries down the rest of the alley, fuck the silent and stealthy approach. If he runs into Ross, the excuse that ‘he got lost on his way to the convenience store in his quest to buy a frozen yoghurt’ has never failed him yet.

Alsmiffy discovers Ross contemplating the locked gates to the local park. The gates loom in the moonlight, polished, black metal glinting. Lethal spikes top the gate. 

Not daunted, Ross simply begins to climb the gate with all the agility of a bullymong (a supposed cryptid with four arms from a creepy wildlife forum that Alsmiffy had downvoted because of how ridiculous it looked). 

Those spikes were designed to stop birds from perching on top, not to keep humans from getting in or out. The birds on this world are enormous pests, their droppings acidic enough to corrode objects, including gates and the poor sods happening to stand underneath them.

Ross squeezes through two topmost spikes and drops down onto the other side, plodding off into the recesses of the park. That’s no easy feat given how stocky Ross is; he makes it look like he did it every day. Not wanting to lose the trail, Alsmiffy jogs over to the gates. 

There’s no way in hell he can pull off the same stunt, not without a ladder, rope and a safety net. On the other hand, he’s confident that he’s thin enough to fit between the bars.

He panics for a second when his head gets trapped between two bars. Wriggling and carefully moving his head to the side frees him. Grumbling (remarks about ‘having a big head’ withstanding), Alsmiffy extracts himself from the gate, belatedly remembering which direction Ross had went. 

On this side of the gate, the park is pitch black. Barely any light from the street lamps dares to intrude, thanks to the shrubbery blocking it with the effectiveness of brick walls. Light just didn’t seem to reach this far in, and he’s only a metre away from the gate. 

Not liking it one bit, Alsmiffy gulps, turning to face the dark. He’s this far in, he might as well actually see what Ross is up to. Keeping his mind firmly on the direction of the gate lest he needs to make a quick getaway, he bravely steps forward.

It’s only by accident that Alsmiffy trips over Ross’ outfit poorly shoved under a bush. Alsmiffy fishes out the clothes. Yep, underwear, shorts, the ridiculous polo shirt and flip-flops. No digistruct modules are amongst those, which implies that Ross has done this often enough to not need them. Ideas of why Ross might have stripped and gone running around naked in a park flood Alsmiffy’s mind.

He’d better not stick around to find out what’ll happen if Ross returns and catches him holding all the clothes- an idea strikes Alsmiffy. 

Under the gas mask, he smiles. He tucks all the articles of clothing into his inventory, returning to the gate. From how he sees it, he’s doing Ross a favor, keeping all the clothes safe by taking them home for him.

Whether or not Ross knows he’d done so or will appreciate the kind gesture is a different matter altogether. Alsmiffy also prefers to think of it as one of those good deeds, certainly not in Ross’ favor but in his own.

Two hours later, Trottimus awakens to an ECHO call. He leaves behind a nightmare about being trapped on a hoverbike and made to traverse a fiendish obstacle course, egged on by Alsmiffy and Ross. Five minutes later, he puts down his ECHO device to get dressed in the depressing gloom defining ridiculously early morning passing as late night.

Well, that’d been an embarrassing call from the local law enforcement about ‘your roommate being arrested for public indecency, and would he please come down to the station, and please bring a set of clothes’. 

The people in the station have resorted to giving Ross a spare towel to wrap around his waist. They edge away from him when he grins at Trottimus, the grin coming off as more manic than apologetic. Trottimus silently hands over the plastic bag of clothes he’d pulled out from Ross’ suitcase.

“Sorry, won’t happen again,” Ross reassures the people, politely bowing and nodding on their way out. They’d been too terrified to give him anything but a warning.

Trottimus keeps his mouth shut until they’ve left the station and are out of earshot. “Why were you running around in the streets naked?” Trottimus inquires, keeping his tone casual enough to not sound judgemental.

He’s not that annoyed anymore at being woken up by the call to bail Ross out. He’s more interested in how Ross ended up in said situation. It’s not everyday his roommate’s arrested for public indecency at  _ night. _

“I fancied a bit of fresh air,” Ross airily lies, interested in the tantalising ‘so deep fried until your arteries collapsed inside-out’ smell wafting towards them from a fast food joint. He’d already be at the counter if all the loose change on him didn’t add up to one dollar. The cheapest item on the menu is two dollars.

“We have a  _ balcony _ ,” Trottimus automatically points out. It’s a balcony the size of a broom closet but it’s a balcony he’s extremely proud of. He’s not that bothered by the blatant lie Ross is trying to feed him, not when he has his own dastardly deeds (that definitely do not include ‘running around naked’) to hide. 

“You can’t run around on a balcony, you’d just fall over the edge,” Ross points out in return. “The park’s better for that. Without the falling off the edge bit.” His stomach  _ pines _ as the place approaches.

Watching a disappointed Ross turn his head away towards the fast food place passes Trottimus an excellent idea. “You hungry?”

Ross’ head turns to the point of almost giving himself whiplash, his eyes lit up. In response, Ross empties out his pockets, showing precisely why he can’t buy anything. “I don’t have any money,” He laments.

“I can pay,” Trottimus decides. It’s that time of the night where grabbing fast food seems to be an attractive idea, regardless of whether or not booze is involved.

He hadn’t had dinner either, electing to take a nap instead (seeing as stakeouts lasting from dawn to dusk are not fun). At the moment, the fridge’s contents consist of a lonely bottle of milk about to curdle into a substance approaching cheese. The ice cube trays had been poached early on to serve as the gathering point in the front hallway for loose change, keys and knick-knacks.

Touched by the generosity, Ross tucks his lint-lined pockets back in, trotting after Trottimus. Trottimus pushes open the door (avoiding the deep fried handle entirely) to the fast food place and strides up the counter to place both orders.

Fifteen minutes later, the two of them are munching on the largest cheeseburgers twenty dollars can buy, clutching bags of congealing chips. Hidden amongst all those chips are pint sized tubs of sweet chilli sauce guaranteed to liven up the experience (or your money back).

Ross is taking his time to savor every bite, letting the grease pool on his tastebuds and soaking them thoroughly. The bread and meat gush out juices with every thoughtful chew. A week of furious scrubbing with a soft bristled toothbrush will wouldn’t have removed the topmost layer from his mouth.

The well-meaning experts recommended that his daily intake should be at least three times of the burger. These days, with how scarce money is, Ross typically resorts to hitting up soup kitchens and handouts for grub. Surviving on those is barely enough to keep him going for a single day, let alone a whole week.

While he wouldn’t turn down seconds if offered, his appetite has no compunctions about asking for thirds or fourths if the second helpings happen. He forces himself to step outside those places, letting those in the line behind him have bigger shares.

It’s not quite starving himself but his stomach has occasionally nibbled at its own walls to try to satiate the persisting hunger.

The problem is, does eating one’s own flesh count as cannibalism? That’s a question Ross has heard posed numerous times amongst others of his own kind. He hears it the most from those stuck in the same boat as him. Ross had stopped turning up to said support group meetings if it meant quelling the temptation before it became too powerful to resist.

The upside to an unpredictable income is that Ross boasts a number of skills cobbled on the fly wherever money can be found, from fiddling with meters to being able to collect outstanding payments without having to stoop to violence.

Let there be light; he’s already fixed up a few of the busted light bulbs in Trottimus’ place. Leaky kitchen tap, begone! The stuck drain in the shower has been freed of its ghastly affliction. Ross doubts Trottimus’ noticed all those minor improvements but if he has, he’s remained mum about it.

“Let’s go back, it’s getting late.” Trottimus is dipping his hand in and out of the paper bag (one side turning transparent fro the grease amassing there), munching on the deliciously soggy chips. The empty bag is crumpled and tossed onto the sidewalk over one shoulder.

Ross waits until he’s gone into the lobby before picking up the bag and dunking it in the bin suffering a trashy congestion of haemorrhoids. Let it be said that while he’s not a model citizen, Ross tries, he really does.

On some days, that’s just not possible. He discreetly pulls his shirt sleeve down over his arm, ambling after Trottimus into the waiting lift.

\--

In the days following that incident, Ross is careful to leave for his outings only on the evenings that Alsmiffy is absent. Those nights are rare. Trottimus is usually away at work.

Restless from being unable to venture outside and not wanting to risk anyone walking in on him if he raced around the apartment in his other form, Ross locks himself in the bathroom.

Once he’s stripped down to the waist, Ross concentrates on willing claws to replace his nails. It’s a bit like having a fingernail that’s reaching ingrown status, except in reverse and there’s ten nails to contend with.

He rakes down at his arms with said claws, using fluid motions that trace the bunching muscles from his shoulder to his wrist. It allows his own claws to prick skin and grate it off in massive chunks and flakes. Most collects in the bowled sink. The rest meet the floor with a bunch of noises reminiscent of a butcher shop on a lazy, slow-traffic weekend.

“Let’s get zesty,” He dryly mutters as a particularly long, pink ribbon of a flake curls in on itself. 

Pink (or red, seeing as his vision becomes hazy as his eyes decide to get in on the fucking up his own body action) dribbles down the sides of spotted porcelain. There’s no pleasure in watching the mutilated skin knit itself back up again several moments later, and in determinedly repeating the slashing motions. 

Less than three scratches later, the familiar, hair-raising smell of blood saturates the air he’s breathing. If he could block out the smell, he would. Alas, he’s hard-wired to prick up upon catching the faintest whiff of it. He doesn’t have to fucking like the way the world hovered between clear and  _ clearer to the point of making his brain shit itself  _ when blood gets involved, or is about to.

While the substance might have significant meaning in the eyes of others, to Ross, it’s just blood.

There’s nothing inherently romantic about what he’s doing. Truth be told, Ross vividly remembers throwing up in the seconds spanning the initial scratch, on the very first night he’d chosen to do this. Well, not really ‘freely’ chosen, more like chosen out of desperation because the alternative is to freak out his roommates. Or get arrested.

He’s so used to the pain that it’s a distant series of pricks that remind him that yes, his nerves are still functional and no, they don't like being damaged either, and when will his brain get the message? The control center in his brain chucks the messages into the bin, signalling to his nails to continue. A compromise is a  _ compromise _ .

It’s an itch he can’t relieve no matter how much of his own blood he draws with his clawed fingernails. The act in itself gets him through the night where drinking until he’d passed out and smoking until he’d almost breathed out clouds of tar have failed him.

As dawn approaches, all the blood is mopped up and washed away by the sink. All the torn flesh and skin been dumped into next door’s compost container (always accepting donations; in a week, they’ll find that their miniature petunias are thriving all of the sudden). The window is flung open to carry away the smell. A spritz of the lavender air freshener eliminates the stubborn bits. Let nothing remain of his deed.

On those long nights, eventually worn out by the repeated healing that draws the hunger out so that the one night feels like a year, Ross can finally pass out on the couch, pleased at his restraint.

However, tired of accidentally squashing Ross whenever he fancied a break on the couch, Trottimus eventually cleaned out a closet-like storage room.

“Sorry it’s a bit on the wee side, but presenting your new bedroom,” He’d mumbled, looking down at the floor.

All the furniture in the room consists of an embarrassingly small, creaky bed that folded down from one wall, only if Ross is careful to stand out in the hallway before pulling it down. 

It’s better than sleeping outside, or on the couch so Ross is incredibly grateful, moved to tears by the gesture. Trottimus probably thinks he’s gone bonkers from all the emotion in his voice, plus the resulting bear hug.

If Ross curls up on the bed while the door is shut, lights out, the room perfectly conceals his transformation. Goodbye all kinds of pain, and hello, sweet dreams.

He fears Trottimus will kick him out if he finds out he’s living with a creature that shouldn’t exist but well, Ross and a several thousand others are alive and kicking so what’s a person to do?

If Alsmiffy is disappointed by Ross’ continual presence in the apartment, Alsmiffy either doesn’t care or if he does, he’s doing a bang-up job of hiding it.

On a day where the pull of the moon is noticeably muted (it’s normally a worthwhile, ever-present presence at the back of his mind), Ross notices Alsmiffy leaving the apartment with  _ that _ suitcase.

The smell from the suitcase promises plenty of delight to those watching, and a world of hurt for those caught in the radius. Belonging to the former category, Ross would know. Alsmiffy had been carrying that suitcase on the day that the two of them had met.

From what Ross had been able to work out, Alsmiffy is a purveyor of sorts regarding explosive and fiery devices, content to deal out the goods to others before sitting back and watching the show. 

Brushes with the law prevented Alsmiffy from ever personally using said goods, but it hasn’t stopped him from watching from afar if he could help it.

It’s almost like Alsmiffy is obsessed with with witnessing the fruits of his labor if he couldn’t light the fuse himself. A person like that would be right at home carrying out the government’s orders on this world, no questions asked. For whatever reason, Alsmiffy is always on the other side of the law.

Wherever there's bound to be an incident, it’s almost guaranteed that Ross can trace a hint of Alsmiffy in the air, and Alsmiffy smells like destruction incarnate.

That same smell had been tailing him in the hours before Ross had returned to the bush and panicked, his clothes nowhere to be found. There’s no evidence to pin Alsmiffy for the crime of nicking his clothes and getting him almost arrested. 

Based on smell alone, Ross is 99% sure that Alsmiffy had shamelessly left those clothes on the couch upon Ross and Trottimus’ return to the apartment.

And so, Ross follows Alsmiffy out. Alsmiffy is green to being tailed and so, takes no precautions whatsoever to shake off a potential follower. Or so Ross initially thinks. 

Alsmiffy takes a winding trail through the city that has Ross struggling to keep up. Slouching, Alsmiffy is striding at a leisurely pace, badly whistling a tune he doesn’t recognise. The whole time, the suitcase is swinging by him. He stops to buy a newspaper, briefly chatting about the weather to the vendor before walking back the exact way he came.

Ross presses against the doorway as Alsmiffy breezes by. Half an hour later, a huffing Ross is rewarded for his efforts.

A ragtag bunch of people greet Alsmiffy in the run-down warehouse. Now, these are the sorts of people Ross wouldn’t mind taking a bite out of.

They tended to unfairly clamp down on gatherings of his own kind simply because they shared the same turf, and they couldn’t stand how easily Ross’ kind could overpower them. If it weren’t for the issue of numbers, Ross’ kind could very well hang onto their turf a lot more often.

To find that Alsmiffy did dealings with them makes the blood in Ross’ veins boil. Still, he refrains from ducking out and dragging Alsmiffy away. Chances are, Alsmiffy’s been dealing with this crew long enough to be this chummy with them.

That also explains why meeting dens burned down, one after another, forcing his kind to move meetings around, even to the other end of the city. Well, he’s going to put a stop to  _ that _ . 

Idiotically, Alsmiffy’s left his suitcase sitting on a dumpster, close enough to grab and out of snatching distance. 

Ross picks up a pebble, holding it up to consider the throw. He lobs it on the other side of the warehouse. A couple of the watchers head off to go see what it is. Another loose pebble cracks the window above the crew’s heads, interrupting the chatter and exchange of underground gossip.

“Must be those kids again,” grumbles a sentry.

“Come on, let’s go tell them to push off, we ain’t having any of it.” The leader flexes, swaggering out the door.

As Ross predicted, Alsmiffy tags along, leaving the suitcase unattended. Ross hurries over, digistructing a bottle of water that he almost spills in his rush to get it open.

Carefully, he tips the bottle of water into one half of the open suitcase. Water laps at the fuses, rendering them useless. Ross despawns the bottle once it’s clear that not even waterproof matches could light up the devices, snapping the suitcase shut. 

He wipes away the droplets escaping with his sleeve, making sure that the suitcase appears untampered.

Chuckling, Ross has only just ducked down behind his hiding spot when the crew and Alsmiffy return, irritated at the lack of children to throw bigger rocks at.

While it’s tempting to stay, Ross doesn’t doubt that the watchers will sweep his side of the building for those ‘kids’. Snickering at the inevitable falling out, Ross sneaks off to go buy himself a burger. He feels deserving of it. Trottimus has been leaving him money for groceries.

Four hours later, laden down with groceries, Ross returns home to one ruffled Alsmiffy nursing a black eye on the couch. 

“They thought I was trying to sell them duds!” Alsmiffy sulks, holding up a bag of frozen peas to his poor eye. A loose hoodie with the hood up conceals the rest of his face. Trottimus wordlessly hands him a towel to wrap the peas up in, squinting suspiciously at Ross.

“What were you trying to sell?” Ross inquires with all the innocence he can muster, when all he really wants to do is laugh and rub it in Alsmiffy’s face. Repeatedly. Instead, he moves to put away the groceries.

“Firewo-flameproof smoke alarms,” Alsmiffy quickly lies, appearing to glare at Ross. Ross raises his eyebrows, glancing at Trottimus to see if Trottimus is quick on the draw to suspect that Alsmiffy is telling big fat ones in front of him.

Trottimus is checking his ECHO device. “What?” He senses being stared at, lifting his head. “Did I miss something important?”

Ross inwardly groans at the missed opportunity to get Alsmiffy kicked out for probably hoarding fireworks in his room. Instead, he offers to make dinner, because Alsmiffy is now staring at him. All that can be seen of his eyes are that they are alight with malice, perhaps aware that he knows that Ross knows.

\--

Alsmiffy is dusting the rooms and kitchen with a vengeance. He has a valid reason to be proud of himself: housework is beneath him. For even picking up a broom, he deserves a gold star. That said, he’s fully aware that Ross has taken it upon himself to play  _ housekeeper _ .

If Ross is trying to win the placement of permanent roommate through cooking and housekeeping his way to Trottimus’ heart, Ross has another thing coming to him.

Alsmiffy is not about to let himself be outdone. The powers of observation have told him that Ross only ever sweeps the front hallway and gives the kitchen, plus living room, a quick wipe to make sure that it all shines. When Alsmiffy had checked in all the missed places, remnants of a layer starting to build clung to his finger.

That’s suitable motivation for Alsmiffy to go through every room using nothing but good old-fashioned elbow grease. The plan is to get as big of a dust bunny going, then shove it out the front door to leave it for the building’s cleaners to deal with.

He makes an exception for Ross’ sorry excuse of a room. The fold out bed is difficult to remove, let alone fold up. Snooping is great and all, but Alsmiffy suspects that Ross is likely one of those people who had a keen sixth sense for knowing when his stuff’s been poked through. No dust can possibly gather in there either.

Trottimus is usually absent during the day, his bizarre hours of work occasionally creeping into the evening that left the apartment bereft of its owner until the third member of the trio opens the door.

See, Trottimus expects the front hallway to lack obstacles. He certainly does not expect to disturb a giant dust cloud, no,  _ storm _ , that leaves him coughing, eyes watering and puffing up as a hellish rain of dust began to settle on everything, including him.

“Who-” Trottimus begins to sneeze uncontrollably, his sneeze rocketing along the hallway and causing more dust to fly into the air. More dust means more sneezing. More sneezing means more dust getting flung in every direction. “Dumped-” Achoo! “Dust” Achoo!” Into-” Achoo! Achoo! “The-” Achoo! “Hallway!”

Alsmiffy, about to ask if Trottimus is proud of his mad housekeeping skills, freezes in an adjacent doorway. Trottimus hasn’t seen him yet. Another skill Alsmiffy is proud of, is knowing to make a break for it. This is one of those times. Trottimus’ tone is capable of making Swiss cheese out of anyone who is currently holding a broom.

Thinking fast, Alsmiffy darts into the living room. It’s either throw the broom out the window or become mincemeat- his roaming eyes land on a snoring Ross sprawled out on the couch.

Ross sleepily mumbles a few words of nonsense as Alsmiffy shoves the broom into one of Ross’ hands, backing a safe distance away to make it seem as though he’s only just walked in. There’s no sense in missing the fun by beating a quick retreat miles away and draw attention to himself that way.

Trottimus has become one with the dust, lumps of it falling off him as he drifts into the room, his tears forming a brown trail down his cheeks.

As Alsmiffy expects, Trottimus stops dead in his tracks upon seeing the broom in Ross’ hand, tracing the hand up to its owner. Ross yawns, stretching as he sits up, broadcasting all signs of an enjoyable nap, or hard work.

Alsmiffy wants to chuckle; Ross has no idea of the shitstorm that’s about to hit him.

“Oh, hey, you’re home already. What do you want for dinner?” Oblivious, Ross blinks. He frowns at the state of Trottimus. “Why are you covered in dust?”

Trottimus swallows, spitting out dust from his mouth. “Did you think it’d be  _ fun _ leaving dust out in the corridor?” His enraged tone practically skewers Ross’ amiable one.

Ross manages to dig a bigger hole to bury himself in. “What dust?”

Alsmiffy can see the gears crack as they grind against one another in Trottimus’ head. If he could see into the inside of Trottimus’ head, he envisions steam clouds and veins bursting out of his brain. 

“The dust you swept up and dumped in front of the door!” Trottimus all but bellows. 

“I didn’t dump any dust-” In response, Ross stands up, finally letting go of the broom. It clatters to the floor, finally drawing Ross’ attention to it. “I didn’t sweep today,” He says lamely, his mind blown at having no idea why a broom would randomly end up in his hand if he didn’t sweep. 

To Trottimus, it’s just damning evidence. His mouth twists into a furious line. Ross is now aware that he’s skating on thin ice. “I did however, do laundry today so I can get you some new clothes-” He steps forward, perhaps intending to do damage control if he can’t explain his way out.

Trottimus coolly raises a hand. “No thank you. I can do that, and while I’m at it, I’ll check up on the washing machine just in case you fucked that up too,” is Trottimus’ cold statement. 

Damn, Alsmiffy should have cut holes in Trottimus’ outfits if he’d known in advance and ditched the scissors on Ross’ bed.

Once Trottimus has stormed off (leaving behind footsteps ringed in dust on the carpet and floor), a sullen Ross peers at Alsmiffy, eyes narrowed to slits.

“Maybe next time, you should shove all the dust under the carpet,” Alsmiffy proposes, wisely fleeing before Ross can connect his earlier activity with the misplaced blame.

\--

Surprisingly, Trottimus chooses not to kick Ross out. Having two roommates instead of one will always be difficult, though the other two had settled in with startling ease. He hadn’t intended to allow the two to stay. Before he knows it, three months had flown by.

While he’s suspicious of allowing Ross to continue housework, Ross is by far, the best cook, not only managing to fit in three, but five meals using whatever money Trottimus drops off on the kitchen counter. He even fills the cupboards with snacks with the leftover allowance that’s not spent on groceries, emergency repairs to facilities and living expenses.

The apartment consists of a living room, a kitchen, one bathroom, two bedrooms and a closet-sized bedroom. Trottimus had obtained the apartment for super cheap. That’s only because of how consistently the water and electricity stall. There might even be a mould problem beginning to take root, but eh, so long as it doesn’t make the ceiling cave in, they can put up with it.

The second bedroom is Alsmiffy’s alone; he never allows Ross or Trottimus inside of it. Ross tells Trottimus that Alsmiffy does keep his room clean, including periodically airing it out. He claims he can smell it.

The broom vanishes occasionally, so perhaps Alsmiffy is just as considerate as Ross in regards to keeping their apartment pest free.

Ross doesn’t contribute to rent as often as Alsmiffy. Alsmiffy, on the other hand, generally forwards a sealed envelope containing his contribution for the week’s rent. Trottimus appreciates it. He’d gotten a double deal for the price of one, sans the incidents.

The incidents themselves are isolated. He knows that they're a normal part of having roommates (university days had been worse). The other two are generally well-behaved, neither slovenly, rude, offensive or rowdy, not even to each other after the incidents.

If anything, all the nitpicking he can think of in regards to Ross are his mysterious late-night trips and his habit of locking his room whenever the full moon came out of hiding. Sometimes, when intent on finding a clean shirt to wear, Trottimus discovers articles of clothing that’s been through bushes, the occasional twig, grass stains and mud sticking to Ross’ clothes. Well, at least it’s not blood. Blood would be an issue.

If Ross proves a tad odd, Alsmiffy is stranger. Alsmiffy tends to smell like the inside of a factory putting together guns and Trottimus knows because he’s been inside of one before. Alsmiffy never eats or drinks in front of the other two, not if he can help it, what with his compulsion for wearing a gas mask. Trottimus puts it down to Alsmiffy being a covert hypochondriac.

What Alsmiffy does for a living is a mystery; he tended to dance around questions, asking a few pointed ones of his own whenever Trottimus had asked. Fair enough, since Trottimus’ own occupation is also a mystery. 

Ask no questions and they’ll tell no lies appears to be the general consensus all around. That’s perfectly fine by Trottimus. He’d have kicked out noisier roommates.

To his pleasure, Ross has managed to get the hot water working again, by fixing the tap that’d fallen off the last time they’d tried it. 

Trottimus wedges a chair under the bathroom door. The lock has and will always be broken, no matter how often Ross determinedly approaches it with tools and superglue. 

Looking forward to the blessed return of hot water after a week of nothing but freezing showers, Trottimus hangs his clothes up on the back of the chair, stepping over the edge of the shower and into the fogged up glass enclosure.

Eyes already shut with the anticipation of glorious hot water, Trottimus sticks a foot over the drain. It meets a slimy object, wet, horrible, disgusting, what the  _ fuck _ \- a scream worthy of a an award-winning, blockbuster horror movie tears itself free.

Ross and Alsmiffy have dislodged the chair and barged into the bathroom. Ross is clutching a frying pan while Alsmiffy is wielding a curtain rod, the curtain dangling off it. The chair meets the sink, bouncing off to stop by the busted door.

“Trottimus!” Ross’ head swings this way and that to seek him out. The damp towel hanging around his shoulders flaps against the door.

“Where’s the fire?” Alsmiffy glances around the inside of the bathroom. When he sees nothing (aside from one shivering, naked Trottimus backed up against the glass wall), he lowers the curtain rod. “Oh, did you see a cockroach?” He chances an anxious peek at his feet, just in case one came skittering out of nowhere. There’s no way in hell he’s not risking it climbing up his leg (again).

“Those things are  _ horrible _ , you don’t know what you’re in for when you've had one on you,” Ross says, shuddering at imagining one crawling on him. Remembering Trottimus, he shoots a concerned glance his way. “Where’s your towel?”

Trottimus belatedly grabs his towel, tucking in around him, glad for the cover of steam hiding his delicate parts from being stared at. Alsmiffy snorts, leaning on the rod.

“So, what’d you scream about, if you didn’t see any bug?” He conversationally asks.

“Look at the drain!” Trottimus points an accusing finger in the direction of the shower drain. Ross and Alsmiffy glance over. Through all the steam fogging up the bathroom, they can indeed see a black clump tangled up in the metal fitting forming the drain. It occurs to them that Trottimus had probably stepped on it instead of standing with his feet apart.

“Is that someone’s  _ toupee _ ?” Alsmiffy extends the rod to poke at it. “It’d better not be yours!” He gleefully snags a clump on the rod, yanking out some of the hairs to examine it with disgusted curiosity. “Look at it, it’s almost alive!”

“Whose hair is it, and  _ why _ did they leave it in the drain?” Trottimus snaps, irritated that nobody had thought to fish it out before leaving the bathroom. And here he is thinking that he had pretty decent roommates, for a change. 

In a flash, Ross despawns the towel hanging off of his shoulders, straightening up. He’s also pointing at Alsmiffy. “It’s his hair!”

Trottimus has never seen Alsmiffy without his mask on, so it stands that he’d suspect him. Trottimus swivels on the spot so that Alsmiffy is directly in his vision.

Underneath his mask, Alsmiffy’s mouth is open at Ross’ daredevil accusing. “You did not just fucking accuse me of clogging up the shower with my hair.” Alsmiffy sounds impressed, cocking his head to regard Ross with both respect and building fury.

“He was shaving earlier,” Ross insists, fervently hoping that nobody will notice that the hair in the drain is black, shaggy and long enough to form a noose out of, bearing an uncanny resemblance to his own.

“I fucking wasn’t!” Alsmiffy counters, throwing down the curtain rod so that it smashes against the wall, drawing up out of his characteristic slouch to his full height. Accusing someone else of a deed is something, but to accuse him of it means _nuclear_ _war._

“All that leg hair of his is ghastly!” For comedic effect, Ross pretends to shudder, never mind how he’s never seen so much of a hint of leg from Alsmiffy. 

For that, Alsmiffy lets out an incoherent sound of rage, moving to grab Ross by the shirt rather than point out the obvious. “You fucking listen here, you prick, you know I was-”

Tired and fed up with life as it is (for fuck’s sake, all he wants is a  _ hot shower _ ), Trottimus resorts to his last weapon. He didn’t want to do this. “Alsmiffy, you clear that drain.  _ Now _ ,” Glowering, Trottimus says in the lowest, deadliest voice the two of them have ever heard and wish they hadn’t.

Sensing an opportunity, Ross flees while Alsmiffy is stunned. It’s every man for himself once Trottimus breaks out that tone. The frying pan wouldn’t have helped Ross then.

\--

Alsmiffy hasn’t forgotten the event. He and Ross have accepted that Trottimus isn’t likely to throw them out without any warning. It’s been about five months since the two of them moved in. By now, they’ve got a pretty good thing going on.

Ross cooks, cleans and does the chores. Alsmiffy and Trottimus bring home the cash to keep the landlord from breathing down their necks or sliding passive-aggressive notes underneath their door. 

Whenever the three’s schedules permit, they crowd up on the couch to hang out in the evenings. They still don't know that much about each other’s backgrounds, though could go into shocking, blunt detail about each other’s habits, dislikes and preferences.

If any of their pasts remain buried for a reason, it’s left that way on purpose. All the three have left is the future and intend to approach it with the simple air of three people who are still floundering their way through life armed with a single paddle between the three of them.

Ross still hasn’t found steady work. More often than not, Alsmiffy finds him staring, glassy-eyed, at the ECHOset with only a bottle of beer to keep him company. To his knowledge, Ross is not (and will never be) an alcoholic dead set on drinking himself into an early grave.

Once, Alsmiffy joins him. Not in the drinking, but on the couch. It’d been a quiet day of sales, resulting in overall, a tidy profit. The three will eat like kings for the following week, if Ross is careful with the spending (and he usually is. Alsmiffy’s weight causes the couch to puff out. Ross scoots over to let him spread out in the gap left behind.

“Whatcha watching?” Alsmiffy asks. He can see that it’s a show about a time-traveling surgeon and their assistant, doctoring their way across time and space. It’s how Ross will respond that’s important bit.

A noncommittal grunt is the answer he gets. If he’d been more sensitive, Alsmiffy would have taken offence. His thick skin is one of his better virtues. He repeats the question, putting serious effort into sounding as gratingly jovial as possible. Ross can never resist the bait to banter.

“Surgeon Why,” Ross mumbles, not taking his eyes off the ECHOset. 

His eyes are rimmed with red, puffy and filled with an exhaustion gained from finding that no matter how hard he tries, all his efforts are going nowhere. That look could have passed for a person in the miserable throes of hayfever. However, Alsmiffy knows that feeling inside and out, recognising it on another human without needing much prior context.

“Is it any good?” Alsmiffy inquires, pretending that he knows jack about the show despite having caught a decent chunk of the reruns before, usually in motels. The show’s runtime is enough to lull him into a zombified state of existence. Sleep generally follows once his mind’s blanked out.

“It’s alright,” Ross replies, lifting the beer bottle to check if there’s any left. There isn’t, judging from the disappointed frown. He lets the bottle slide out of his hand, towards the incoming floor. Before it hits the floor, Alsmiffy’s plucked it out of the air to hang onto it.

This isn’t like Ross.

“You’re drinking the shit stuff. This won’t get you drunk if you need to get hammered fast.” He wants Ross to stop looking like that. A look like that on anyone’s never bode well. Anybody who begins to sport it will surely have offed themselves by tomorrow.

“I wasn’t looking to get drunk,” Ross says. True. Drinking tended to make it worse, which hardcore alcoholics could testify. It’s the opposite of what they want to achieve.

“Then what were you trying to do?” Alsmiffy despawns the bottle, intending to lob it into the bin the first chance he gets. Nobody wants glass on the carpet, because it’s a bitch to clean up. One loose shard always ended up places it shouldn’t (like buried in someone’s foot).

Five seconds of silence, so quiet that Alsmiffy could have dropped a pin and heard it reverberate throughout the apartment all the way to the lift, result. He contents with lip-reading the people on the ECHOset, simply waiting.

“I wanted.” Ross stares at the floor like it’s got the secrets to the universe written on it and staring at it long enough might make it magically appear to set things right. “To make it stop hurting,” He admits, sitting up to properly look at Alsmiffy, daring him to jeer at him. Because it’s Ross, he’s doing it politely, somehow. There’s probably more but he’s probably holding back.

“If it’s about finding a place you belong in, you already got one here with us,” Alsmiffy carefully says, meeting that gaze as best he can through the lens of his mask.

“I’m doing  _ nothing _ ,” Ross says, a bitter laugh telling Alsmiffy all he needs to know about what’s eating at Ross. Ross has been awfully glum the past week or so, retreating to his room after dinner rather than hanging out. “You two do all the work and here I am, just sitting on my ass, every single day, being a useless bloody lump.” There’s a hysterical note that Alsmiffy has also never heard before in the last rush of words. It scares Alsmiffy, just a little. That’s really not like Ross.

“Ross?” Alsmiffy lets Ross have a moment to wallow, before reaching over and slapping him with his own words. “Mate, you’re doing more than I ever could.”

“I don’t do anything useful,” Ross immediately counters. Well, at least he’s listening, or trying to.

“I can hardly keep a room clean. That’s why I got kicked out of my last place.” Alsmiffy leans back. He’s twisting the story out of shape to fit the lie, but as far as he can tell, white lies have never gotten anybody killed. Hurt, yes, but not killed. That’s an important distinction. Any white lies of his, at any rate.

“That’s  _ nothing _ .”

“You can cook. I can’t.” 

“You can make money-”

“Mate, the bloody point I’m trying to make here is that you can do things I can’t and I resent you for that!” Alsmiffy has thrust his face closer to Ross’, watching his surprised eyes stare back, pupils dilating. “I absolutely hate you. I think it’s disgusting, the way you suck up to us, by making all the meals every day, keeping the place neat, fixing shit when I’d have electrocuted myself, doing laundry when I’d have busted the machine apart, but by all means, continue doing  _ nothing. _ ” Alsmiffy huffily sighs, facing the ECHOset again. The show cuts the advertisements to resume, the catchy jingle fading to fake applause.

“One of us has to be on top,” Ross automatically says, hand sweeping to indicate ‘all this’. He closes his eyes, drawn away from the verge of shutting down. “Please don’t make that sound dirtier than I intended.”

“Wasn’t going to,” Alsmiffy lies, reeling Ross in while he can. “So, want to keep doing nothing? I can tell Trottimus you want to do nothing-”

“No!” Ross shoots him an offended look. Offended is better than the one he’d been wearing.

Alsmiffy allows himself to mentally pat himself on the back. “You sure? You seemed pretty dead set on doing nothing earlier,” He goads.

“Shut up,” Ross says with half a smile on his face as he aims an affectionate swat at him. Alsmiffy lets it collide with his arm- on second thought, that actually hurt. There’ll be a mark by the time he showers. “Thanks.” ‘He needed to hear that’ is the unspoken part.

Not wanting to let it become awkward between the two of them, Alsmiffy is too busy reaching over to grab a cushion and tossing it at Ross, starting a pillow fight.

\--

The red circular mark on the calendar indicates ‘six months’ since Ross and Alsmiffy took up residence in Trottimus’ humble and occasionally troublesome residence. Ross doesn’t mind. He prefers being kept busy by all the minor repairs and jury-rigging he performs around the apartment.

He’s been formulating a way of repaying Trottimus for a solid month now, repeatedly stumping and inspiring himself in a vicious circle. It’s enough to drive him  _ nuts _ .

Did he have enough to buy a gift? His noticeable lack of monetary funds discourages that idea. Every dollar goes towards their survival. He doesn’t dare steal from the allowance to splurge on anything for himself. 

Also, while Ross has grown familiar with Trottimus, Ross has and will never snoop around in Trottimus’ room to garner inspiration. He  _ respects _ his roommate, thank you very much (in comparison to Alsmiffy, who gives off mixed messages like it’s nobody’s business).

Clean the whole apartment? Not a chance in hell, what with his hands-off policy about never stepping into either of his roommates’ bedrooms.

He could hand over a handwritten coupon for a free request, though given Alsmiffy’s talent for procuring questionable items and nimble fingers, the coupon is likely to backfire on him. Ross isn’t that imaginative as to write in loopholes so he can skip that one.

Intimidating Trottimus is  _ not _ part of the deal. If he has anybody Ross could shake down, well, Ross isn’t opposed to carrying out the task. He files that into the ‘backup’ plan folder if the dinner falls through.

Cooking is the only other talent he possesses to fall back on. Hence, that’s why Ross has dipped into his emergency funds to break out all of Trottimus’ favourite foods.

Everything’s cooking, stewing and marinating to his satisfaction. Under his watchful, hawk-like gaze,  _ nothing  _ is going to burn in this kitchen, not tonight.

The last item to deal with is one Alsmiffy. Ross had contemplated inviting Alsmiffy to eat. There are pros and cons to that move. 

Alsmiffy is capable of behaving,  _ if  _ given enough incentive; physical threats tended to suffice. The drawback is that Alsmiffy became salty after, falling back on every petty, passive-aggressive and sulky move in the book to make it known that he’s upset. It could last a week.

Ross is not prepared to deal with the whining. He’s not even prepared to deal with how Alsmiffy might pick on Trottimus, even on a special occasion. 

Is this a special occasion? This is the longest Ross has ever spent with a roommate, so he feels it should be celebrated. If he comes off as barking mad to the other two, it’s their loss.

The safest measure is to dissuade Alsmiffy from turning up. Now this is where Ross’ talent for intimidating step up to the plate.

He knocks on Alsmiffy’s door with his knuckles, taking care as to not splinter himself for the fifteenth time on the aging wood that desperately needs a new coat of varnish.

Feet stride towards the door. Alsmiffy peeks through the gap that arises. There’s the usual mask. Judging by the irritated tilt of his head, Ross suspects that he’d disturbed Alsmiffy during a task of great importance. Ross couldn’t give less of a shit. Pretending he did might help his case, though.

He smiles. Alsmiffy’s learned to be wary of that one smile. The door’s pulled back an inch. Behind Alsmiffy lies darkness. He is surprisingly fastidious about keeping his own room clean. Whatever he gets up to in the confines of said room is not any of Ross’ business, or how secretive he becomes whenever Ross knocks for whatever reason.

“You got a moment?” Ross inquires, keeping his tone casual. Still, he looks hopeful, keeping his hands behind his back.

There’s a second of silence as Alsmiffy considers the question. “Yeah, alright, what do you want?” The irritation fades, just a fraction. The potent smell of danger (in the form of shrapnel and fuses) wafts out into the hallway from behind him.

“I’m making a special dinner for Trottimus, so I’d appreciate it if you stayed in your room tonight.” Ross has figured that the best approach is to lay it out with no room for Alsmiffy to misunderstand.

To his surprise, Alsmiffy nods. “Yeah, yeah, you want me to be quiet while you see if you can get into his pants. Just make sure you don’t go knocking down the walls if you bang.” He moves to withdraw, the door closing.

Ross’ hand shoves it open once again, earning a surprised glance from Alsmiffy for the bold move. “I’m not banging Trottimus!”

“I ain’t into threesomes or any that shit, if that’s what you want to ask next!” Alsmiffy tries to trap Ross’ fingers between the frame and edge; Ross overpowers him and steps into his room. “Look, I get how important this is, so-”

Ross misses what he has to say. Alsmiffy’s room is not the shambled den he’d expected. The curtains are drawn, allowing semi-darkness to reign. A naked lightbulb rests on a nest of wires that run down to an outlet.

Aside from the bed, a chair about to fall apart and a shoddy wooden desk converted into bench of sorts takes up a whole wall. Alsmiffy sees him staring. He tosses a sheet over the bench to disguise the project he’s working on.

Lost for words, Ross turns his gaze on Alsmiffy. He’d seen the items under the sheet despite the attempt to hide them. Alsmiffy shifts awkwardly on the spot. A work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, loose sweatpants and thin socks are all that he’s wearing. 

Usually, Alsmiffy gravitated towards suits in varying degrees of wear and tear, even when at home. It’s rare when Alsmiffy breaks out the hoodie. Ross suspects that the hoodie is the only item of normal clothing Alsmiffy owns, and is willing to be seen in.

The other thing about Alsmiffy is that he had a teeth-grating habit of changing his mind at the last second. If he says he won’t interfere, there’s a fairly good chance that he’ll butt in later as though the invitation’s always been good.

Ross had anticipated that. He pulls out a cooling length of rope from his inventory. Alsmiffy takes a step back, his body radiating wariness. “Uh. Let’s talk about this.”

“I’m only going to tie you up while we have dinner so you don’t get any smart ideas,” Ross explains with the air of an idea making perfect sense without considering that other people might have an issue with it.

“If this is about the shit I pulled ages ago, I’m sorry-” Alsmiffy quickly says, edging towards the door. Ross sidesteps to block off the exit, the rope loosely held up in both hands.

“I’ll save the leftovers for you,” Ross bribes. “And I swear to untie you after.” A step brings him within lassoing distance.

“You really want me to stay out of this dinner, don’t you?” Alsmiffy sees that it’s pointless to make a run for it, shaking his head. “Okay, but you  _ have _ to untie me once the dinner’s finished.”

“It’s for the best,” Ross solemnly says. “Turn around-”

“No, you’re doing this the way I want it.” Alsmiffy holds out both hands, silently daring him to argue. Ross shrugs, looping the rope around Alsmiffy’s offered wrists, drawing the lengths together and tying them off. “It looks like you’ve done this before.”

“There were a couple of interesting guides on the ECHOnet,” Ross admits. “I couldn’t figure out what the hell half of them were on about.”

While incredibly tempting, Alsmiffy refrains from commenting, just in case it makes Ross decide to employ several of those knots on him. “I’m pretty sure I know exactly what you’re talking about,” He settles on saying.

“Do you? Some of those guides use far too much rope. Just the wrists and ankles usually work.” Ross leans down to tie up Alsmiffy’s ankles. Okay, that’s a story he’s going to have to make inquires about, later.

“Wait, let me lie down. I don’t want to fall over.” Alsmiffy falls onto the bed. Two minutes later, his ankles are tightly bound together.

“You comfortable?” Ross’ head pops up in his vision.

Alsmiffy ponders the question as he wriggles about on the bed. “Could you move my legs a little to the left? I got a cramp that’s about to happen.” Ross obliges, beaming at being able to assist. “Thanks,” Alsmiffy dryly says.

“You’re welcome. So be quiet and I’ll stick to the bargain.”

“Whatever.” Alsmiffy delivers an apathetic look that his mask hides, staring up at the ceiling as Ross softly closes the bedroom door. Fortunately, the lock’s fallen victim to rust ages ago so there’s a potential exploit.

Taking a nap sounds stupid. Alsmiffy has never been a person who took naps. Time is money. What time that’s wasted on naps is time that he could be using to think up of his next profit.

If he strains his hearing, he can hear Ross bustling about in the kitchen, humming with the occasional, enthusiastic beatbox happening. A mental image of Ross setting the table, prettying up the food and going over last minute preparations for the dinner irks Alsmiffy.

He’d been perfectly willing to stay shut up in his bedroom if it meant Ross and him being square at last. Obviously, this means that it’s on again.

Half an hour crawls by. Judging by the silence, it’s likely that Trottimus is enjoying that dinner. 

Alsmiffy is so fucking  _ bored.  _ When Alsmiffy grows bored, anything could happen. That’s the power of imagination, especially Alsmiffy’s one. One of the biggest mistakes Ross had made was letting Alsmiffy pick how he wanted his hands tied. He’d counted on that, the gamble about to pay off.

Carefully, Alsmiffy shimmies his entire body so that it’s close to the edge of the bed. There’s a knife on the workbench he can use to cut himself free and get back to putting his latest masterpiece together.

That is, if he can get off the stupid, flipping bed in the first place. Alsmiffy manages to sit up, swinging both of his tied legs over the side, putting them down onto the floor with more force than he intended. 

With any luck, Ross wouldn’t have heard him move. Alsmiffy stands- only for the cramp that’d been biding its time to assault his leg muscles. There is a time and place for cramps. This is not one of them. His pain tolerance instantly surrenders.

“Shit!” He falls onto his front, narrowly missing clocking his head on the table, ending up on his stomach. There is no way Ross couldn’t have heard that, not unless he’d gotten lucky.

Footsteps alert Alsmiffy to Ross’ presence. Ross sticks his head into the room. Alsmiffy guesses that a scowl is gracing Ross’ face. Since the floor is all that he can see, Alsmiffy contends with the imaginary scowl. 

“You said you’d be quiet!” He hisses, leaning down to heft Alsmiffy up onto one muscled shoulder.

“Tell that to the fucking cramp!” Alsmiffy hisses back. “I hope you’re having a  _ wonderful _ dinner out there.” Sarcasm is not lost on Ross. He drops him onto the bed, leaving Alsmiffy stuck on his stomach and hands. “Oh, come on, roll me over!” Ross is already out the door, closing it again. The fucker is probably worried about the dessert burning.

Right. Attempt number one failed. There’s attempt number two. Determined to not spent the whole night tied up like a little bitch, Alsmiffy reaches the workbench this time. He feels underneath the cloth with one hand, allowing memory to lead him. The handle of the knife reveals itself to him. His fingers curl around it.

The objective of finding the knife complete, Alsmiffy currently faces the dilemma of ‘how to cut himself free without accidentally slicing bits of himself off’. He’s got a decent grip on the knife handle. The sharp edge is pointed away from him, when it should be pointing at well, the rope chafing his wrists. 

He’ll admit that Ross ties excellent knots or else he’d have wriggled out of them sooner.

Alsmiffy puts the knife down, aiming to spin it around so that the edge points downwards. He can pick it up then. Carefully, he leans down, even as the cramp begins to renew its attempts to bring him down. A new sensation beginning in his lower body begins to make itself known, adding a layer of urgency to the situation.

His hands knock the knife off the table, loudly clunking on the wooden floor. That’s a dead giveaway- as he predicts, Ross returns, incensed at the interruptions.

“Look,” Alsmiffy begins, intending on explaining that he has places to be, and things to do.

Ross picks up the knife, holding it up in one hand with the scariest look Alsmiffy’s ever seen on his face. Is he going to get stabbed? There’s a retort he’d love to use in any other situation, but only if he has a shield between him and Ross. 

The knife glints in the light. Alsmiffy considers how long it’d take to hop over to the door and shout for help. Unless, of course, Trottimus is in on the plan of murdering him and is going to pretend he’s gone momentarily deaf.

He could attack Ross. Ross leans over, brandishing the knife- the knife slices through the rope around Alsmiffy’s wrists. 

“There, seeing as you’re fucking incapable of doing it yourself!” Ross notes with the slightest, condescending note in his words. Alsmiffy is far too busy being shocked to notice, staring at his freed hands. Ross tosses the knife onto the table, already out the door.

Alsmiffy snatches the knife up and leans down to free his ankles.

Only when Ross is seated at the table does the error of his precious action slam into him with enough force to make him choke on his mouthful of mashed potatoes. Trottimus is midway through the pudding, chewing; they’d been discussing preferred guns manufacturers, exploring tastes and trading banter.

Alsmiffy barges out into the hallway. He spots the two of them sitting at the dinner table. He walks towards Ross with his entire body radiating lines of rage, shoulders set and fingers curled. Ross stands to confront him. Trottimus glances between the two of them without stopping his chewing.

Just when Ross thinks Alsmiffy is going to flip the table, Alsmiffy turns and stalks off in the direction of the bathroom.

Ah, that explains why he’d been so desperate to escape his bonds. Well, all he had to do was fucking  _ ask _ .

\--

Now, Alsmiffy isn’t salty about the dinner; what he’s salty about is the way Ross had assumed that he’d misbehave or thrown a tantrum about not being invited to it. He’s got some fucking nerve. Since when has he ever thrown a  _ tantrum _ ?

Tying him up might or might not contribute to the whole ‘I want payback and by whatever deity Ross believes in, he’d better sleep with one eye open’. The leftovers had been consumed with reluctance, only because Alsmiffy is a stout believer in putting away decent food, even if the source of the food is someone like Ross.

Tonight, he is armed with a razor sharp wit. Literally and metaphorically, too. Once he’s properly knackered, nothing but the building collapsing on him could wake him. Living with someone will eventually clues someone in as to their roommate’s sleeping patterns.

It’s only been several hours since the dinner. The time is ripe for payback. Alsmiffy’s on his knees, trying to pick the lock to Ross’ bedroom door. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

The lock is stubborn, given that it's as old as the rest of the apartment. Alsmiffy twists the lockpicks this way and that, trying to find the sweet spot that’ll magically make the lock break its nightly vigil.

“Come on!” He growls. He can feel the lock about to surrender, allowing him the freedom to enter and do what he’s been itching to do since dinner.

A distinct noise from Trottimus’ room causes Alsmiffy to freeze, his eyes sliding from the lock to the bedroom belonging to his other roommate.

A bleary eyed Trottimus is standing in the hallway, yawning. The two stare at one another. Trottimus is dressed in shirts and boxers, his large bare feet taking him over to the light switch in the hallway.

“If you’re going to do something, turn the lights on,” Trottimus advises, staggering off towards the bathroom.

“Thanks,” Alsmiffy says, after a profound pause where he thought Trottimus would have done something along the lines of ‘screamed’ and woken up Ross.

Trottimus is back in his room by the time Alsmiffy’s succeeded and slipped into Ross’ bedroom. Trottimus will have forgotten about the incident by morning.

Careful to steer clear of Ross’ bulky arms, Alsmiffy ends up leaning over Ross, not an easy feat when the room is smaller than a cleaning cupboard, and Alsmiffy has seen all kinds of cleaning cupboards before. 

This one has the privilege of the ‘smallest’ and the ‘smelliest’. He suspects that there’s a permanent ‘wet dog’ smell that a wave of decontamination bombs are incapable of ridding.

Alsmiffy smiles, raising the humming beard trimmer and gets to work.

\--

Ross is seated at the kitchen table, hating the too smooth curves of his face that are under one hand. He knows who’d done it. The smell of the culprit had lingered in his room come morning.

He is waiting for the return of one conspicuously absent Alsmiffy. They have to talk before the situation escalate. As the saying goes, it’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt (namely, Alsmiffy; Ross isn’t that bothered in regards to his own self getting banged up).

At last, Alsmiffy presents himself, walking in like a convicted criminal who’s convinced that he's absolutely innocent. He pauses to take in the serious air Ross is projecting.

Ross waves an inviting hand at the chair next to him. “Enough’s enough.”

Alsmiffy remains standing, folding his arms over his chest. “What’s enough?” He says, pretending to have no idea what Ross is talking about.

“The pranks!” Glaring, Ross points to the lower half of his face where his beard is absent. Trottimus had mistaken him for a stranger and almost lobbed the frying pan at him when he’d walked into the kitchen.

“Oh, that little number!” Alsmiffy chuckles meanly, shaking his head. The move is dismissing the damage he’d done to Ross’ appearance, causing the glare being directed at him to intensify. “Serves you fucking right for the dinner.”

“I thought you were okay with that!” Ross’ hand slams onto the table. Eyes flash yellow.

Oh, poor, naive Ross. “Yeah, I was, up until you tied me up!” Alsmiffy counters, not willing to admit the yellow eliciting the smallest of shivers.

“This isn’t about the tying you up, is it?” Ross leans forward, snarling. “You probably enjoyed it.”

“I’m not into the whole BDSM thing, despite what the mask might imply,” Alsmiffy dismissively says.

“You just don’t like being left out,” Ross says, dropping his voice. Alsmiffy starts to laugh. Ross is so far off the mark that he can’t help it _. _ “Fine, you don’t want to be kicked out,” Ross sneers. “Maybe you just don't want to be all  _ alone _ again.”

Alsmiffy stops to stare. Well, well. Perhaps Ross isn’t as stupid as he’d initially thought. “So, what, are you leaving? You can’t handle a bit of pranking? I didn’t think you’d throw in the towel.”

“No, I was going to ask if  _ you _ were going to leave.”

“No, no, you’re leaving. I’m going to stay. Things is, this place is a dream. A dream that’d be better off without a bastard like you around.”

“Anything’s better than a prick who sells explosives out of the spare bedroom!”

“Those aren’t explosives, they’re-”

A shuffling sound drags their attention to one Trottimus attempting to sneak by them. A box is under his arm. Trottimus has the look of someone who’s just been caught stealing from the cookie jar.

“I’ll just go to my room and leave you to work things out, if that’s alright,” He quickly says.

“Hang on, while you’re here, you should help clear things up!” Alsmiffy’s already crossed the room to nudge Trottimus towards the table where Ross is sitting. 

“Who do you think’s a better roommate?” Ross accosts Trottimus with the question.

“Um.” Trottimus’ eyes dart between the two of them. Alsmiffy and Ross are both standing, glaring at one another with their arms folded over their chests.

“It’d better not be Ross, because he doesn’t do jack shit around here for rent.”

“It’d better not be Alsmiffy, because he probably gets off to setting stuff on fire, jerking it off to the arson on the news-”

“Ross probably wants to get into your pants, look at how often he makes your favourites-”

“Look, you’re both good roommates. Nobody’s getting thrown out since it’s been months, you two should probably talk it out without punching each other and I’ll just go to my room,” Trottimus says in one breath.

“Nope, you gotta see this through.” Alsmiffy’s hand latches onto Trottimus’ shoulder. He leans in close to Trottimus’ face. “I bring in the rent. On  _ time _ .”

Not to be outdone, Ross leans in on Trottimus’ other side, close enough to whisper seductively, “I keep the place clean  _ and _ feed you.” His hand finds Trottimus’ other shoulder.

A shrug dislodges both their hands. “Look, you both have your merits-”

“What’s this?” Alsmiffy’s only just noticed the box he’s doing his best to hide by steadily shifting it under his arm.

“Yeah, what is it and why do you want to look at it in your room so badly?” Ross sniffs the box to see if he can get a clue from it- Trottimus hugs it closer to him, now sweating buckets.

“It's nothing, it’s just a bit of work I brought home-”

“Then you wouldn’t mind showing us, would you?” Alsmiffy reaches for it. Trottimus smacks his hand away, retreating towards the hallway.

Ross is standing there, causing Trottimus to back right into him. He tugs the box out of Trottimus’ hands. “Got it!” Alsmiffy peers over a shoulder to see what it is once he’s tugged the lid back.

“Stop-” Trottimus shouts a second too late.

“It’s a miniature plane,” Alsmiffy blandly states. “Is that all?” He glances at Trottimus. “I thought it’d be something dirty. I’m a little disappointed in you, Trottimus.”

“Yeah, I thought it’d be a massive dildo.” Ross closes the box, handing it back to Trottimus.

“It’s not mine. I stole it.” Trottimus admits. The two stare at him. “From Hyperion.”

“Hang on. You,” Alsmiffy says, pointing to Trottimus,” Work. For. Hyperion.”

“It’s not exactly ‘work’. I look like someone who works there and happen to have their access card,” Trottimus reluctantly explains. He narrows his eyes. “Now that I explained what I do, you two had better spill.”

“I’m a werewolf,” Ross reveals at the same time as Alsmiffy.

“I make and sell contraband explosives and fireworks,” Alsmiffy admits at the same time as Ross. They pause, thrown off by the confessions happening at once.

“You explain first,” Ross says, glancing at Alsmiffy.

“No, no, you can go first. Yours sounds much more  _ interesting _ ,” Alsmiffy quickly says.

“Alsmiffy, please explain what the fuck you’re doing with fireworks in your room,” Trottimus decides for the both of them. At the reluctant tension that appears on Alsmiffy’s frame, Trottimus gently adds, “I’m not going to kick you out, I just want to know how the hell you got into it.”

“Let’s just say I have an excellent talent for it,” Alsmiffy says. “In a city like this, turns out that plenty of people like blowing shit up.”

“Ross?”

“I’m a werewolf.”

“That’s it?” Trottimus nods, acceptance on his face. “Alright.”

“What?” Ross blinks. “Yes, that’s it! You’re not surprised, shocked or disgusted?” 

“I had a werewolf for a neighbor once,” Alsmiffy muses. “He made great moonshine. We used to hang out on his porch before his place burned down. Kids, electric blankets are a hazard!”

“Is that all?” Trottimus glances from Ross to Alsmiffy. “Huh. That explains a lot _. _ ”

“Well, I thought you were a hooker,” Ross sheepishly admits, nodding at Trottimus. “And I thought Alsmiffy was a swinger for those sorts of parties.”

“Wait, I thought you were a hooker! Running around naked at night and all that,” Alsmiffy points out.

“If I don’t go out at night on a full moon, I’m liable to hurt someone, usually myself!”

“All you had to do was explain.” Trottimus sighs. He considers them, the makings of a brilliant plan awaiting sharing. “Well. Seeing as our collective talents fall into the non-legal category, would you like to help me with something?”

“That depends.” Alsmiffy pretends to survey his fingernails (ignoring how the effect is ruined slightly by his gloves being in the way).

“On what?”

“If you need anything blown up.”

\--

The Hyperion compound is situated on the outskirts of the city to avoid engaging with the current Maliwan and Dahl tussle over land deeds. If Hyperion wanted to, it could give the other two megacorporations a run for their money. On this world, being on the outskirts allowed Hyperion to be incognito, or as incognito as a building with a giant ‘H’ as the sign outside tries to be. 

That’s what Trottimus suspects as he tugs out two janitor’s uniforms, handing the one marked ‘XL’ to Ross. Alsmiffy is throwing sharp glances up and down the length of the alley. 

As Ross struggles into his own, Trottimus zips his own uniform on. The uniform is a shade of canary yellow with white markings on the sleeves, plus a ‘J’ sewn onto the chest so that nobody could miss the chance to kick him. Alsmiffy’s refused to don one on the account of having to remove his mask. As such, he’ll have to be incognito another way.

A janitor’s trolley Trottimus procured on yesterday’s stakeout sits ready for Alsmiffy to conceal himself under. It’s one of those trolleys with an enormous tub, also boasting shelves underneath to store all manner of cleaning goods and paraphernalia. Curtains, the exact same shade of yellow as the uniform, hides all that, and one Alsmiffy.

Alsmiffy tucks himself under, grumbling about being too tall for this shit. Trottimus begins to push the trolley over, the wheels trundling along the pavement. He and Ross share one final affirmative glance.

“You look ridiculous,” Trottimus notes. The ‘XL’ uniform on Ross is squeezing Ross’ shoulders, bulging at the seams while being far too loose around the midriff. Ross pokes at the ‘belly’ that’s formed. “Stand up straighter and maybe tighten up the belt?”

“I am standing up straight!” Ross yanks the belt around his waist to the point of having to suck his chest in. A loose flap of fabric flops out, defying attempts to tuck it away. “You should have grabbed me a smaller one,” He grouses.

“I didn’t think you’d fit that one if I had.” Trottimus sighs. “Let’s do this.” The security guards wave them in after fleetingly glancing at Trottimus’ card, turning to Ross. “Trainee,” Trottimus mumbles, gesturing at Ross with a thumb. “He ain’t got clearance yet.”

“‘s fine, just get him a card before the end of the night,” yawns a guard, blinking sleepily. “There’s a mess in the cafeteria from the gun fight that you’re needed for.”

Trottimus and Ross say nothing, heading into the building through one of the side doors.

“Who are you pretending to be, by the way?” Ross whispers out of the corner of his mouth.

“Somebody named Colin,” Trottimus whispers back.

“Is he a janitor?”

“Apparently,” Trottimus says. “The cover story is that I’m a journalist who’s fallen on hard times.”

“Ah.” Ross just nods, sweeping his eyes over the empty corridors. They bypass the offices, heading straight into the research and development wing. 

A few haggard looking technicians wander in and out of the tough-looking, yellow and black banded doors. None of them spare any second glances for two janitors wandering around on the lookout for messes.

Trottimus tries not to look at the technicians too enviously, keeping his gaze down, cultivating a downtrodden air of someone who’s sick and tired of mopping up vomit a hundred times and the next won’t be any different.

Ross on the other hand, projects enough worry to attract concern from ‘someone’. That ‘someone’ could be anybody who bothered to look at them closely and consider calling security. 

“You look too worried, stop looking worried,” Trottimus tells him in an undertone.

“I’m trying! I’ve never been on a heist before,” Ross hisses. “Keep your voice down, I hear someone-”

Up ahead, a technician sticks their head out of the cafeteria. “Ah! Here’s a couple of janitors. You two get in here, on the double.” Trottimus and Ross glance at each other, eyebrows raised. The technician impatiently sighs, mistaking their cautious hesitance for smartassery. “One of you, at least, we both don’t got all night. The coffee ain’t gonna clean itself up!”

“I’ll catch up with you later.” Ross grabs a mop from the trolley, hurrying forward to oblige.

“That’s more like it,” The technician says in a smug voice. They pause as they stare at Ross, eyes widening slightly. “Er. Nice smile.”

Ross realises that he’s grinning, as he always does when he’s nervous. “What? It’s a nice night.”

“Yeah. Uh, listen, I’ll just leave you to mop up and be off, I’m not looking for trouble.” The technician’s also taken noticed that Ross is taller than them and is capable of squashing them against the wall if he wanted to. They give a polite half-bow, half-nod, hastily walking out of the room.

Well, there’s still a mess that Ross is now responsible for. The coffee’s spilled all over one table, puddling by a bundle of papers that’d narrowly escaped a similar fate. 

Ross steps out of the room holding them. “Hey, you forgot your-” The technician’s long gone. “Hmph, it's your loss. I guess I’ll just hang onto these.” 

He stuffs them into his janitor’s uniform, figuring that he’ll just hand them in at the front desk or something, beginning to hum as he mops up the liquid trickling down from the table. 

The papers contain a detailed series of blueprints for a flameproof pair of gloves, plus how to rig them up to a bunch of gas-filled containers for maximum immolation (aka, crowd control).

Meanwhile, Trottimus and Alsmiffy are trundling down a corridor towards one of the areas Trottimus knows the surveyors are housed. Or one of them, according to his memory of his internal stake-outs.

“You sure they’re here?” Alsmiffy’s voice is muffled from under the cloth. One hand gingerly lifts up the fabric. “Urgh, it’s too hot under here, just let me breathe for a sec.”

“Get back under there before someone sees you!” Trottimus yanks the fabric back down, much to Alsmiffy’s indignation.

“You’re not the one suffering under here!” Alsmiffy snaps back but otherwise, vanishes under the trolley.

Five minutes later, Trottimus slows their brisk walk, counting the numbers on the doors. They’re well into research and development. Nobody ever goes this far into the compound without a reason. For Trottimus, Ross and Alsmiffy, that reason is to steal shit. Nobody said it had to be a  _ legitimate _ reason.

“Coast is clear, you can climb out,” Trottimus informs Alsmiffy after checking all the corridors leading into the one they’re standing in.

Alsmiffy extracts himself from the trolley with much muttering, the stretching eliciting a series of cricks. “Right.” He stares at the ‘lock’ on the door, eventually adding flatly, “I’m just double-checking, but you want me to pick the lock on this?”

“What’s wrong?” Trottimus’ ears strain for footsteps nearing.

“See for yourself,” Alsmiffy says, tugging on Trottimus’ arm. An impatient shove directs Trottimus in front of the door. He scrutinises all the metal.

“There’s no lock!” Trottimus throws a dismayed look at Alsmiffy. 

Alsmiffy chuckles. Trottimus’ gut proceeds to spasm. No chuckle could ever sound that  _ diabolical. _

“Relax, I got this,” Alsmiffy says, dragging out the word ‘relax’. He reaches into the inside of his jacket, withdrawing a brick shaped, brown lump with a bird’s nest of rainbow wires and two corrosively colored canisters. A single control panel is crudely slapped on top of it. Duct tape barely contains the whole lot.

“We’re not blowing up the door!” Trottimus reaches over to snatch the explosive from him. Alsmiffy’s natural height advantage allows him to hold the bomb out of reach.

“Ah, ah, ah, just trust me on this one. It’ll be fine. You trust me, right?” Alsmiffy continues to waggle the bomb in his hand with infuriating superiority.

Trottimus curbs the powerful urge to kick him in the crotch or the shin, just  _ anything,  _ to avoid drawing attention to the two of them before they’ve even gotten their hands on two of the precious surveyors. 

Alas, Ross isn’t here to exercise his strength. Trottimus should probably learn to pick locks at some point. Or throw down someone. 

He’ll have to trust Alsmiffy. Whether or not that’s a good idea is something else entirely.

“Don’t make me regret trusting you,” Trottimus concedes, swallowing all of his reluctance with difficulty. 

Alsmiffy swaggers forward, crouching to feel out the doorframe. He withdraws a roll of duct tape, tearing off a strip that tapes the bomb to the door. Thin fingers moving too fast for Trottimus to catch what’s going on, Alsmiffy arms the bomb. The control panel begins to blink. Trottimus can only watch in fascinated horror.

So this is how they’ll die.

Casually twirling the roll of duct tape back into his inventory, Alsmiffy thrusts an arm out, forcing Trottimus away from the door. “Stand back, and fingers in your ears!”

Trottimus slams his eyes shut, both palms pressed over his ears. He’d expected a mighty ‘boom’. What he gets is: a series of hissing sounds, plus the smell of metal being succumbed to a corrosive substance. It smells like ozone. It goes straight to the part of Trottimus’ brain that makes him reel, both from the shock and the dizzying smell.

Alsmiffy is already surveying his handiwork with a proud, fatherly air. “Open sesame,” He crows, sliding the door open by forcing a palm along the heated, burnt surface.

Mindful of the smoke and debris, Trottimus rushes into the room, locating the surveyor in its familiar box. He hefts it down as though it’s made out of glass. The lid’s flipped up to reveal the surveyor sitting on a cushion tailored out of yellow velvet.

“There you  _ are _ ,” Trottimus breathes, a finger sliding under one smooth wing to dislodge it. “Come to papa.” He despawns it into his inventory, where it won’t be detected once they leave.

“So, why are these so important to you?” Alsmiffy is examining a pair of shiny metal gloves displayed on a rack. Two holes are punched into the palms. He reaches out. “Can I help myself to these while we’re here?”

“Sure,” Trottimus mutters distractedly, switching the surveyor out for a cardboard cutout doppelgänger. The gloves aren’t his to give away so he’s got no guilt about Alsmiffy making off with them. 

The switch complete, he squashes the lid and replaces the box. He turns around to find Alsmiffy trying the gloves on. “These aren’t bad. What do you reckon they’re for?”

“I think I heard them talking about a possible flamethrower unit,” Trottimus dimly recalls. “Anyway, let’s move on, we don’t have a lot of time.”

“Sure.” With one last look of longing, Alsmiffy shoves the gloves into his inventory for later inspection. As they leave, he hastily points out, “Wait, let’s cover up the hole in the door.” They leave an ‘OUT OF ORDER’ sign taped over the gaping hole once Alsmiffy’s hidden under the trolley. “Also, you didn’t answer me back there.”

“All I’m saying is, Hyperion isn’t very good about crediting designs,” Trottimus tells him, returning to keeping an eye out for any approaching guards or technicians making their rounds. “Or paying people for them.”

Alsmiffy digests the tidbit. “Huh.”

“I’m just taking back what’s rightfully mine,” Trottimus adds with a spiteful note in his voice. “One more thing: Hyperion forgets to make backups of prototypes, so that’s why they're so bad about developing technology.”

Beyond the cleaning sign posted at one end of the corridor, Trottimus spots a whistling Ross mopping outside of the last room. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes.” He leans on the mop with a businesslike air. It creaks, distressed about the added weight.

“Had to blow a door open to get in,” Trottimus informs him, earning a confused look. He sighs, adding, “Alsmiffy.” Ross nods, understanding.

Alsmiffy climbs out again to examine the door while Ross provides a lookout. His whistling is the signal to act normal if people are afoot. “There’s no lock to pick on this one either.” He glances at Trottimus for what to do, putting on a smug air.

Dreading having to ask but knowing there’s no other choice, Trottimus asks in a pained tone, “Do you have any more of those bombs on you?”

“Well, let’s see...” Alsmiffy pats himself down with both hands, mockingly jiggling his hips. Trottimus’ heart sinks, only for Alsmiffy to perk up as his hands reach behind him. “Got one!” He pulls a bomb (that’s lacking the two canisters on the sides) out of his- Trottimus snorts.

“You’ve been keeping a bomb in your pants the whole  _ time _ ?”

“I only got one pocket in my jacket!” Alsmiffy defensively says.

“What about your inventory?” Trottimus points out. A bunch of mental images of Alsmiffy (or anyone) missing one buttock makes him blanch.

“It’s not as cool,” Alsmiffy responds, strapping the bomb onto the door with more duct tape. Trottimus remains standing by the door as Alsmiffy scuttles off. Staying there earns an offended shake of the head from Alsmiffy a moment later. He returns to quickly drag Trottimus behind the cleaning trolley. “Get away from the door!” Should it worry him that Alsmiffy sounds alarmed?

“But I thought-”

“Shut up, I grabbed the wrong bomb!” Alsmiffy shouts. His last word’s lost in a rush of heat, fire and shrapnel exploding out at them. Trottimus is blown back by it, tripping over backwards. The cleaning trolley’s toppled over, spilling buckets and cleaning items all over the floor.

Alarms whine. The sprinklers begin to dump a torrent of water onto the two of them. 

Up the corridor, Ross shouts, “What the  _ fuck _ ? I thought you said there’d be no explosions!”

“Change of plans!” Alsmiffy shouts back, disgruntled about getting drizzled on. He whirls on Trottimus as he stoops to fix the trolley. “Get your shit, we’re getting out of here!”

Trottimus is already stumbling through the blasted door towards the last surveyor. Water’s pressing his hair down, causing it to fall over his face. His uniform’s plastering to his body already, the sodden sleeves falling over his hands. Coughing from inhaling smoke, he skids around a corner towards the last surveyor. 

Please let it be where it is, please let it be where- there! The box is exactly where it’d be, snugly nestled amongst other projects. Trottimus lets out a relieved sigh, snatching the box off the packed shelf. 

There’s no time to extract the surveyor aside from confirm that it’s present. The box gets unceremoniously shoved into his inventory. Trottimus mutters an apology for the treatment, retracing his steps towards Alsmiffy.

If Hyperion knows their stuff (and they sometimes do), a bit of water exposure won’t harm the surveyor. Alsmiffy’s finished picked up the trolley and is already hiding underneath it once Trottimus barges into the hallway. 

Ross has run down to meet them. “Come on, there’s people coming!” He shoves the trolley forwards, his beard and hair drooping from being caught under the sprinklers. The dripping mop is still resting in the crook of his elbow. 

Trottimus takes over pushing the trolley, the two of them trying hard not to run or walk too slowly.

Footsteps. The two glance back at their obvious footsteps that lead back towards the room. Ross lowers the mop to hastily wipe them away. Trottimus solves the problem by dumping a bucket of water all over the floor. He tosses it at Ross’ soaked feet to complete the deception.

“You  _ idiot _ !” Trottimus shouts at Ross, adopting an outraged tone. “That’s not how you fucking clean a floor!” Two security guards, accompanied by a terrified technician appear around a corner. “You’re going to get fired once I have a word-”

“What’s happening here?” The technician strides forward, only to draw back upon seeing Ross’ defeated expression. “Firing the newbie? That’s a bit harsh, even for a janitor.”

“You two look a bit under the weather,” One of the guards lightly observes. The other guard gingerly steps over all the water to continue down the corridor towards the blaring alarms.

Trottimus snorts, ignoring wanting to watch the second guard walk away. “Somebody broke into the rooms back there. We’re just trying to stop the water from getting everywhere and this idiot’s just given us a lot more work.”

The remaining guard and technician shoot alarmed glances at one another. “Come on, this might actually be important, for once.” The two dash off to the scene of the crime.

“The prototypes! Make sure they’re not damaged or-” The technician’s whining fades, overtaken by alarms and the patter of water.

Ross and Trottimus choose not to dwell on how easily they’d fooled the three, steering the trolley away with renewed vigour. With any luck, they’ll be far away with the prototypes once everybody’s realise that the janitors aren’t really janitors.

They pass a photo board of technicians, row after row of blank faces staring out at them. Ross taps Trottimus on the shoulder, slowing his walk to eyeball it. “Hold on, I want to do something.”

“ _ What _ ? This isn’t the time-” Trottimus whirls around to see Ross uncapping a black marker he’d nicked from an office desk on his way to the meeting point.

“Those technicians are assholes,” Ross supplies, scribbling a series of graffiti on every single faces. “Take that, Xephos! I don’t care who you are, but as an intern, your life is probably hell already...enjoy your new moustache!” He lets out a cackle.

To his own surprise, Trottimus snatches the maker off him and begins to scrawl graffiti as well, with manic energy. “I’ve always wanted to do this! Take that, and that, and that!” The two are too busy vandalising to notice a watcher.

“What have we here?” A security guard drawls, having watched them for the past five minutes. “It looks like a couple of troublemakers who are up to no good. Naughty.”

Trottimus and Ross slowly turn around, stopping in the middle of their latest masterpiece (painstakingly drawing horns on the lead technician, with a matching moustache). “Er,” Trottimus goes, his mind stalling on an explanation.

“We’re just giving them a makeover,” Ross smoothly says, more quick on the uptake.

“Give me the marker,” The guard demands. “Come on, stop hogging it.” Ross obediently drops the marker into the guard’s hand. The guard grins and leans up to gleefully draw a penis on the lead technician's face. “I’ll take over, you two probably got a mess to clean up somewhere.”

Unable to believe their luck, Ross and Trottimus turn to leave- a gasping Alsmiffy tumbles out from under the trolley, landing on his hands and knees. The guard glances down at him. The marker squeaks as it comes to a sudden stop.

“We have intruders in the compound! Be on the lookout for two wet janitors, accompanied by-” The guard’s radio blares.

Alsmiffy picks himself up, dusting his suit off. “You almost forgot me!” He indignantly says to Trottimus and Ross. “Also, being under there sucks. I almost suffocated to death.” He notices the security guard staring with an open mouth. “You should probably make that mustache a little curlier,” He points out, oblivious to the situation.

“I have intruders here in the-” The guard moves to report. Ross punches them in the face, snatching the radio off their belt and smashes it on the wall. Grimacing, he lets the pieces rain down from his hand.

“So much for a quiet heist,” Trottimus sighs, snapping his shield on.

Ross tosses his digistruct modules over to him, plus a sheaf of loose papers squashed from being stuffed into his pockets. “Just in case, hang onto my stuff. Oh, I don’t need a shield,” He dismisses when Trottimus offers him a Tediore one. 

Alsmiffy grabs it instead, the blue washing over him as the shield links up to his HUD. “How do we get out of here?” Alsmiffy finishes off the drawing the guard had been working on. He carelessly tosses the marker onto the guard’s unconscious form.

“We’re not taking the way we came in, they’ll have blocked that off by now.” Trottimus points to the shipping and receiving marked on the map on the wall. “We can leave through there, it’s never locked.”

“Let’s roll,” Ross says, cracking both of his knuckles. He tears the janitor’s uniform off, causing water to spray everywhere, stepping out dressed in a t-shirt and shorts. Shoes are lobbed at Trottimus to safekeep as well.

“Oh,  _ Ross _ ,” Alsmiffy says, sounding disgusted at all that water landing on him.

“It was  _ chafing, _ ” Ross shoots back. Alsmiffy and Trottimus suspect that Ross being underdressed is for the best.

Trottimus almost trips over his own uniform once he sheds it, leaving it in the middle of the corridor. The trio start to jog towards the exit. Being in the lead, Ross barrels into more guards coming around the corner, swiftly putting them out of commission with more punches to the head. 

Reinforcements surround them, outnumbering them three to one. Ross frowns, taking in the odds with narrowed, yellowing eyes. Trottimus and Alsmiffy back into one another, reveling in the comfort of two people who are glad to know that neither of them have started the assignment yet.

Trottimus spies three tiny red lights in the corner of his HUD. Putting his hands up with no attempt to disguise his blank look, he dips into his HUD to examine what the lights are. Well, well, isn’t  _ that  _ a coincidence he’s now all over.

“Give. Back. The. Prototypes,” wheezes a red-faced technician doubling over from a series of stitches plaguing them. Water drips off their entire body.

“Trottimus, it’s your call,” Alsmiffy whispers, nudging Trottimus with an elbow. In a lower voice, he adds, “I reckon I can drop some grenades and Ross can clear us a way out.”

“Sure.” Trottimus exits his inventory. He’s smirking. It throws the technician and the guards off. Being surrounded isn’t a laughing matter.

“Is that ‘sure’ to escaping or ‘sure, you’re going to hand over the surveyors’?” The befuddled technician asks, glancing at the guard to confirm that either way, the three intruders are going to leave in body bags.

“Catch!” Trottimus spawns the surveyors in a burst of blue and white lights, the three of machines whirring as they fan out towards the technician and guards.

“Don’t shoot the surveyors!” pleads the technician, convulsing on the floor as an electric bolt silences them.

“Tell them to stand down!” shrieks a guard whose foot has just been trod on by another guard aiming to get out of the way of a dive-bombing surveyor.

The corridor shakes from the impact of Alsmiffy ditching every single flashbang grenade he possesses. The explosions fill the halls with a light so intense that it whitens Trottimus’ vision, leaving him stumbling towards the sound of Alsmiffy’s triumphant laughter. 

A few seconds later, color and shapes begin to bleed into his sight. Trottimus has never been so glad to have vision, assisted by Alsmiffy steering him toward Ross. Lethal projectiles bounce off his shield, the shield’s charge rising and falling to a beat of its own.

A smarter technician (wearing safety goggles) ducks to avoid being clipped in the head by a loose surveyor. Bolts crackle in the air. “I can’t reprogram them! They belong to ‘Trottimus’”, They howl.

“I like this  _ power, _ ” Trottimus muses out loud, following a blood stained Ross towards the shipping and receiving.

Ross lowers his head and charges, beginning to shift. It sounds like a body being slowly crushed in a grinder. Someone throws up from the sight. 

Growling, Ross smacks them aside, shrugging off the remains of his shirt and shorts- Trottimus hurriedly tries not to think about the lack of underwear and Ross’ earlier complaint about chafing.

Alsmiffy’s gotten hold of a fallen guard’s gun and is making short work of the guards attempting to subdue him.

“I got us covered!” He shouts over the sound of people yelling, groaning and swearing as his bullets hitting their mark. “Here, have another grenade!” He tears the pin from a grenade nicked from a guard’s belt, tossing it into their midst. 

People shriek from another bout of vision loss, earning a cruel laugh ringing with an undertone of satisfaction.

Doing his best to not lose his dinner from witnessing Ross transform, Trottimus gestures Alsmiffy into the shipping and receiving. The three surveyors rejoin them, swooping low underneath the enormous shutter that’s descending. Trottimus despawns the surveyors for safekeeping. The surveyors could come useful, oh yes.

Having them under his thumb is proving to be  _ magical.  _ In a shadow, Ross growls. Non-threateningly.

It makes Alsmiffy step back, however. “I can’t tell what you’re trying to say, Ross.” Ross rolls his eyes, gesturing to his lower half. “Oh. You’re going to be naked once you change back?” Ross nods, shrugging apologetically. “It’s nothing we haven't seen before,” Alsmiffy cheekily adds. Ross growls, threateningly this time. “It was just a joke, chill.”

While that’s happening, Trottimus has gone over to the other side of the shipping and receiving to examine the shutters there. He finds a panel and presses the button. One of the huge shutters ascend with a grisly grinding that makes the three jump, allowing the night air to flow in. It's simultaneously the sweetest and revolting smell to hit the trio’s noses.

Ross sticks his head out, a clawed hand gesturing them to leave once he’s deemed the coast is clear. The three of them split up once they’ve blown through the empty security gates, vanishing into the dark with their respective prizes.

All in all, a successful heist, and certainly not their last.

\--

“Okay, how much have we racked up this time?”

“Ross, we’ve told you five fucking times already, it’s-”

“Alsmiffy, just let him look at the posters. We did it! We’re officially wanted people. I can toast to that.” A soda can hisses as it’s popped open. Purple, slushy foam dribbles down the side as the can’s lifted. Trottimus loudly burps once the gas has hit his stomach, grinning.

Ross belches even more loudly, tossing his empty can into the drooping, shoulder-height flower bushes mostly hiding them from sight. Blossoms rustle from the newest addition to the garden decor. 

“Cor, look at it. Bloody hell.” Paper rustles as the crumpled posters are tucked away, almost reverently. ”That’s a lot of fucking money.”

“Too bad nobody’s claimed it yet. And they saw we’re scrubs to the whole being ‘marks’ thing.” Alsmiffy is dangerously rocking his chair backwards, two of its legs off the ground. The other two are angled perfectly to hold his weight. “Pass me a napkin, my ice cream’s gone all mushy.” An earlier dare from Ross has resulted in the multi-tasking, a challenge that Alsmiffy is only too happy to tackle, what with his massive ego.

Ross hands him one, glancing wistfully at the menu trapped under Alsmiffy’s boots trekking dirt on the table. He licks his lips, catching the last of the melting ice cream in a crunchy, waffle cone. A single bite devours the last of it. “This ice cream is  _ great _ . Who wanted to try this place out again?”

“Me.” Trottimus drops his empty bowl onto the table, casually flicking through the furniture catalogue he’d stolen from the outlet. He sits up, excitedly pointing out, “Hey, they’re having a sale on triple bunk beds!”

“Really?” Ross leans over to stickybeak. A light bump from him destroys the delicate equilibrium keeping Alsmiffy balanced on his chair. Alsmiffy hastily rocks forward a moment too late, his ice cream going flying to splat on the floor. He crashes onto his back. “Sorry.” Ross leans over to right Alsmiffy plus the chair. “I’ll buy you another ice cream.”

“You’d fucking better, I liked that flavor.” Alsmiffy levels a glare (that Ross can feel regardless of whether or not he can see Alsmiffy’s eyes) at him. People who’d glanced over avert their gazes, not wanting to start shit with the shifty looking trio.

A hundred metres behind them, the three don’t notice the tall figure in dark green (cradling a bag patterned with a gaming store logo to their chest) skilfully leaping over scenery, weaving between furniture and people, screaming shoppers ducking out of the way. They gracefully leap over the edge of a balcony, dropping out of sight.

They’re being chased by a short, panting, white-haired figure. The latter stops at the edge of the balcony to peer down, scowling before nimbly vaulting over the edge as well. People also avert their glances from the spectacle, none too eager to be dragging into questioning for becoming witnesses to murder from bounty hunting gone wrong.

“I need more moisturiser,” Trottimus says, wrinkling his nose from how dry his hands have become in the air-conditioned mall. “And Ross needs some new clothes. I’m sick of you ruining my shirts during the full moon.”

“I’ll pay you back, now that I've got the skills to pay the bills.” Ross lets out a barking laugh at the groans he earns for the cheesiness of his statement.

“I could do with a new mask and some paint, plus grenade mods,” Alsmiffy fondly contemplates, leafing through the furniture catalogue he’s stolen from Trottimus.

Welcome to the fast life, lads, it can only get better from hereon, three months in and still counting.

\--

Alsmiffy considers Trottimus with the air of a connoisseur specialising in mischief. 

Pranks don’t always have to end in screams but Alsmiffy always finds that those draw out the fun, eliciting such a sense of satisfaction akin to a well-placed back scratch in exactly the right spot or the first mouthful of a scrumptious treat that one hasn’t had in months due to stuff (I.e., no money).

So yes, Alsmiffy prefers his pranks to have a malicious nature to them. This one isn’t any different.

He creeps over to Trottimus’ side, not bothering to conceal his approach. Trottimus knows he’s drawing close, in the way his beady little eyes swing up to the reflection on his laptop monitor in spite of the the glare obscuring it. They dart away, settling on the chat taking up the rest of his attention.

Whatever game Trottimus is playing, he won’t have any room for it, not for the one Alsmiffy is planning on dragging him into.

It’d started out as tiny deeds that over time, grew wild and out of anyone’s control (his, most of all). In hindsight, Alsmiffy should have stopped at the point where his own personal sense of satisfaction came at the cost of Trottimus’ health, happiness and sanity began to take a toll on the victim.

Alsmiffy begins by digistructing his gloves despite the ban on them being used indoors (barring emergencies and the other two understand that he’s the one to run behind when things really get heated in close quarters). 

He flicks a flame that’s barely larger than a match head into the palm of his hand. The motion is measured, deliberate and slower than how he’d normally do it.

Trottimus’ eyes flick to the view on the laptop, taking in the reflection of Alsmiffy juggling the naked flame from hand to hand. One more flame joins its fellow, followed by another. Soon, Alsmiffy has about three of them leaping through the air, leaning closer and closer to Trottimus.

Sweat is beginning to trickle down Trottimus’ neck, dribbling from his forehead. The room isn't that ventilated, owing to the nature of the building they’re squatting in. It consists of a sprawling warehouse housing an assortment of high end groceries, baking goods and rations.

They’ve been helping themselves whenever the fancy strikes, making sure that they cover all traces of their pilfering. It’s usually in the form of dragging other containers in front of the goods they’ve nicked from.

Trottimus’ usual reaction to the pranks is to hop up and scramble away from Alsmiffy as fast as possible. This time is different. That should have also been another, stupidly obvious tipoff.

Alsmiffy tilts his hand to let go of one flame. It lands on edge of Trottimus’ lab coat that’s trailing onto the floor. It’s a tarnished white, the kind that could only be achieved through hard wear and action. 

The best detergent, combined with the universe’s top washing machine in the six galaxies couldn’t restore it to its former glory. Trottimus is also ridiculously attached to it, having lovingly overseen its repair as often as he tends to his three problematic surveyors.

It makes sense that Alsmiffy would pick on the garment, especially if it means having to watch Trottimus perform emergency surgery on it later. It draws out the suffering and Alsmiffy always likes seeing the fruits of his labor.

The rest of the flames are transferred (with scandalising care). Trottimus reacts by squinting with more intensity at the screen of his laptop. The laptop hums. His fingers tap away even as the flames begin to blacken the material.

Alsmiffy watches, the spectacle painting his mask to match.

The flames merge into one indistinguishable wave that laps at the coat, devouring it thread by thread. Trottimus continues to chat to his ‘friends’ (that Alsmiffy maintains a dubious outlook towards, especially about the nature of the chat Trottimus hits up every now and again; nobody could be that tolerant of him).

He’s tempted to reach out and snatch the dancing flames away, but that would ruin the immersion. It’d be like announcing his loss before the game properly began, and Alsmiffy is in it to win it, regardless of the stakes.

Charred scraps of fabric fall to the floor, every coal stained edge flaring with the red of a roaring fire newly stoked. The tiniest doubt that Trottimus is letting him get away with it inflates Alsmiffy’s sadism, an intoxicating high that only Alsmiffy can get from torturing of hapless beings. 

When ants hadn’t sufficed, he’d just moved onto bigger and better targets. Human beings are just his latest choice.

The reasons for the willingness of one Trottimus to prolong his suffering doesn’t even occur to Alsmiffy; he’s never been particularly good at digging deep into someone else’s skull. He’s spent his whole life in nobody’s head but his own. 

There’s no special reason as to why he’d want to know why somebody else would think so differently from him, if there’s nothing of worth to be gained from the effort.

To make money, you go to spend money but why do that when you could steal all of it in the first place? Hard work might not be a new concept to Alsmiffy but hard work can be skipped out on if he so much as finds the tiniest crack to wriggle into, bypassing it. The same goes for empathising with others. Assumptions and jumping to conclusions serve him perfectly fine.

Imagining how Trottimus might feel about being set on fire has never, not for one second, flitted across Alsmiffy’s self-centered, egotistical and cruel mind.

What happens next is the first nail in the coffin.

Trottimus smothers a low whimper as the flames begin to caress his leg, sweeping from his lab coat to his pants with the eager air of a scouting party discovering new territory to plunder. 

Alsmiffy frowns, a split second of doubt being shot down. It bounces back up again, demanding attention.

He’s never let the flames roam so freely, especially not to any part of Trottimus’ extremities. The rhythmic clacking of keyboard keys fills the room. Sweat begins to dampen clothes in dark spots, dripping down a reddening face contorting from holding back on any sound that might further Alsmiffy’s enjoyment.

The skin under the burned fabric adopt the characteristic pattern of flesh exposed to scorching heat, warping and blistering as the moisture evaporates. Brown gradually eased into a pink, the pink becoming a vivid shade that Alsmiffy’s only ever seen on cooked flesh nearing burning point.

As a kid with nothing better to do with his time (his family couldn’t afford a babysitter, see), Alsmiffy burned countless plastic models with a magnifying glass, spending hours crouched over the chosen figure of the day. 

Said figures had been filched from the bags of snobbish kids who’d called him ‘from  _ that  _ part of town shared by drunk bitches that’d claw your eyes out if you so much as glanced at them and sleazy nutcases who yammered on about nothing but doorways into other universes, and powered moonstones that could cure their rash’.

First, the fragile exterior bubbles and pops, wobbling, a mirage in the desert taunting thirsty travelers. The sunken edges grow softer, gravity patiently sculpting each of them downwards into a heap. All the badly applied papery stickers crinkle and shrink, flaking as the cracked backing found nothing to grasp and so, followed the rest of the figure’s inevitable collapse. 

Replace the figure with Trottimus’ legs, arms and chest and that’s what Alsmiffy is witnessing.

“Trottimus-” Alsmiffy reaches out, deciding to intervene at long last. The doubt is leaking into a part of his brain that’s so rusted over that it’ll take a nothing short of a miracle to kickstart it.

“Don’t  _ touch  _ me,” snaps Trottimus, the last word more of a gasp than a retort. The intention is clear: Trottimus is willing to fucking burn to death before his eyes.

Stunned by the three words, Alsmiffy automatically retracts his hand, only to be frozen by the sight of Trottimus anchored to his chair, back arched and set alight. If it’d been anybody else in the chair, Alsmiffy would have called the sight ‘magnificent’.

Instead, Alsmiffy feels as though he’s the one sitting in the chair.

It’s been several minutes since the clacking of the laptop’s keyboard filled the room. In that time, Alsmiffy considers the idea at long last that he might have crossed a line that he should never have toed in the first place. Looking back (months later), he should have chopped off his own foot in the first place.

“What’s that smell? Trott, did you let him cook again, you know that he’s-” Wrinkling his nose, Ross wanders into the room, arms bearing a crate of canned soup taken from one of the shelves on the way over. 

The sight burrows its way into his brain, sparking action a second later. The crate’s carelessly thrown onto the floor, tinned cans escaping their cardboard prison. He almost trods on one in his rush to reach Trottimus.

Trottimus’ eyes have rolled up into the back of his head, his limp figure sliding off the office chair (that’s beginning lose its form, sagging). Unable to touch Trottimus without harming himself, Ross rips off his jacket and beats the flames out, not caring if Trottimus flinches from every hit and accidental thwap to the face.

Throughout it all, Alsmiffy is a bystander, a million miles away.

Under the assault, the flames perish. Alsmiffy would have protested their screams upon their deaths. He comes back to helping lower Trottimus down onto the floor, helped by the gloves that’d started this whole mess. All the heat washes off onto the concrete, sinking down.

The flames successfully vanquished, Ross tosses aside the remains of his jacket, crouching over Trottimus. He’s unable to help a wince. His hands attempt to find Trottimus’ feeble pulse, his fingers coming into contact with overheated skin instead.

“I can’t find a pulse!” Ross bellows, scooping Trottimus up into his arms. Trottimus’ head flops pathetically onto his shoulder, a faint whimper escaping at the rough treatment. Yellow eyes pin Alsmiffy to the wall behind him. “We need to take him to the doctor, but-” The ‘but’ is a verbal floundering.

Nobody’s going to want to treat three miscreants, not unless they hand themselves over to the law first. In this case, Ross and Alsmiffy will quietly surrender if it means helping Trottimus.

Being snapped at slams him back into the present for the second time. It’s either that or let himself get obliterated by Ross and let the pain anchor him.

He digs into his skull for contacts, hitting upon only one. “I know a place that might help,” Alsmiffy concedes, leading the way out of the building with muscles that initially refuse to budge, not until his mind gets behind them and  _ shoves.  _ He started this and he’ll bloody well see it through.

‘Might help’ is stretching it too far until the words broke beyond repair. The place Alsmiffy has in mind is not famed for helping the poor, unless said poor secretly have a million dollars but Alsmiffy is adept at negotiating prices that he’ll never have to pay.

It’s the only skill he can count on because nothing else matters at that second. The price for what he just did is one he won’t be able to get out of.

\--

The hospital is a series of buildings saluting the sky with helix-shaped blue spires. The buildings are linked together in a semi-circle planted in the metropolitan heart of the city.

Glass paths leading up to it had been swept until they’d achieved a sheen that only pressurised cleaners could do, if cleaners had a billion’s worth of egotistical intent behind it to show off to everyone that yes, the district had the best looking and maintained roads up to the hospital.

Alsmiffy takes one step forward and promptly ignores the shriek of indignation coming from the people (parents of those blasted, mean kids) for his grubby suit and station in life.

It’s not like Alsmiffy would want to advertise he’s loaded these days, oh no. Life’s taught him that it’s all well and good to dress up in a suit but what it really comes down to is: it’s how you put on airs while in the suits to get what you want out of life. Life didn’t certainly hand you everything on a silver platter. If life certainly did, he’d snatch up the matching cutlery that came with the set to hock it later, just  _ because. _

If life doesn’t want to cater to him, then Alsmiffy will just get up and take what he deserves with his own dirty hands. After all, it’s not like all those people needed that money when they had it coming out where the sun don’t shine, so a few hundred thousand going missing wouldn’t hurt them (much). Anyway, all that dough is going to a much better cause.

Every dollar sits in his inventory. A few can be traced back to blood money, some of the notes so thickly stained that he washes his gloves with extra care after handling them. The notion that he might lose it all because of his narrow-minded idiocy makes Alsmiffy swallow a lump that’s like curdling milk because he has no choice but to fork it all over. He did this to himself.

If he’d be thrown into a river, the money would have been the cement blocks carrying him down into the depths. Ironically, at least he won’t have to wash his gloves that way. Death is not visiting him tonight but it dogs their steps, a ghost with an addressed invitation hand-written, stamped, signed and sealed with Alsmiffy’s own shaking hand.

Bundled up in Ross’ coat, Trottimus is being carried up the slope by one Ross.

It’s fortunate that Trottimus is as light as a sack of baby potatoes. Ross had grunted as much when leaving the warehouse for the last time, tossing everything of theirs (and Trottimus’ belongings) into every digistruct module, spare or not, that they could get their hands on. 

He’d fixated on the invisible point just past Alsmiffy’s head, above where his left ear would be, when asking for directions. Since then, he’d strode ahead, stiff legged and mutely obeying Alsmiffy’s mumbled directions.

The two know that they’re not going to return from whatever this is. If they are indeed returning, they won’t be same people.

Some doors are meant to be only opened in one direction, and closed without looking back. No matter how hard Alsmiffy begs, bargains, threatens or pleads, his fists pounding on the door (to smash through to the other side to make sure that it’d never open), causality and effect will quietly bolt it shut with deaf ears.

For good measure, they’d melt down the key to the lock and fire the leftover ingot into the heart of a dying sun. Quite possibly, they’d remove the door (destroying doors is easier than taking down a whole wall, see), chop it up into a million splinters and toss them into a black hole.

Something he’d about read traveling back in time being impossible doesn’t stop Alsmiffy from wasting the excruciating seconds from wishing he could put back that fucking door if meant never having done what he just did, even if he takes him a million years to find every single splinter and every speck of metal to reforge the fucking key and glue the door back together.

And somehow, without a single complaint, because he is exactly of the same mind, Ross will be by his side, helping him shift through a sun’s remains and the shit siphoned out of a black hole, armed with a sieve, metal detector and wood glue. It’s the kind of loyalty money couldn’t buy, and now, Alsmiffy is feeling it more than ever.

The hospital’s front doors are strictly reserved for the kind of people who’d easily drop half a million dollars to look a decade younger. Without having to dig deeper, he can also tell that they’re the sort who used a hundred thousand dollar note as napkins to soak up all the yolk once all their thinly sliced to perfection bread ran out. 

The hospital is a site where rich social butterflies gathered, those would happily drop just as much to hunt the last remaining specimen of an endangered species purely because it’d look good mounted on the trophy wall next to every other species they’d hunted down, the bragging rights, oh and look at my unusual hat stand, what a right marvel it is, it put up such a good fight!

Alsmiffy and Ross are simple people. Simple people opted for the back door, the one located near the ironically named ‘Mercy Wing’. For starters, it’s much cheaper and tidier. 

The janitors and security guards had it on the word of a certain doctor upstairs that they’d be generously tipped if they just happened to ‘forget’ to lock it. Also, it guaranteed free checkups for them and their families. All the details are tucked into the mountain of paperwork that nobody will ever really catch onto.

The back door gives with a gentle push from Ross, admitting him, the to-be patient who is still unconscious in his arms and one Alsmiffy who is trying desperately not to sweat any more than he has to, under his helmet. All the gathered sweat is making the inside of his mask a nightmare within a nightmare. It’s nothing compared to the one he’d brought down on Trottimus’ head though, so he has no right to bitch about it.

Alsmiffy’s line of work involves knowing certain people. In his line of work, said people who knew other people meant that the chances of ending up the opposite of ‘alive’ vastly outweigh the risk of being snitched on.

Said people had also made sure that certain corridors had a taped loop of particular hallways playing to conceal the presence of ‘after hours’ patients.

The ‘out of order’ lift whooshes them up, moving sideways with the decades worth of practice (and daily maintenance) that Alsmiffy trusts it as it zooms along the expansive ducts, delivering them to their destination. Ross and Alsmiffy flinch at the soft, musical sound of the lift as the doors slide open to admit them.

A white hallway lined with dim lights implanted along the floor greet them. They gingerly step out of the lift. The floor is  linoleum, the color of polished ivory, bearing an intentional resemblance to bones.

Even through his mask’s high-grade filters, Alsmiffy can smell the recycled, carefully filtered air. It’s what made a hospital a hospital, a hint of chemicals designed to wash away the unwanted; to someone like him, hospitals reminded him that he’s  _ dirty,  _ a proverbial stain on humanity’s clean laundry that should be purged without remorse, and as painfully as possible.

Alsmiffy wants to back into the lift, hit the button to ‘ground floor, Mercy wing’ and sprint the instant the doors part. He can’t. They’ve come this far. Ross is already three steps ahead of him, his shaggy head lifted to sniff the air for any trace of other beings. 

The sight of Trottimus’ hand twitching between the thin folds of Ross’ jacket spurs Alsmiffy to lift feet made out of concrete and follow. The lift’s doors closing trap him in. This is it, the point of no return. It’s never felt this foreboding before.

A short figure with far too many shadows under their eyes pokes their head out into the corridor. They’re close enough for Alsmiffy to see that the scowl on their face could have made Ross, while in his other form, cease and desist all rough housing over the spare, brand-new controller. The scowl fades.

“You’re not janitors,” calmly observes the figure presently casting a grumpy eye over the trio.

“No, but we  _ will _ hurt you if you don’t-” Alsmiffy snarls, only to be interrupted by  an eruption of pain to his shoulder. Ross’ appropriately timed punch has the intended effect of making him swallow the rest of the sentence in miffed silence. 

Alsmiffy’s hand is already regretfully rubbing at the patch of skin. Without having to strip down to check, the skin is purpling under the fabric. Ross hadn’t been gentle about letting Alsmiffy know that he’s still holding him responsible; he doesn’t blame Ross for hating his guts. 

It says a lot about Ross in that he’s allowed Alsmiffy to accompany him rather than personally making sure said guts ended up outside of Alsmiffy’s body..

Threatening the doctor they’re here to see isn’t going to help. Sometimes Alsmiffy forgets that when violence is all he knows, it’s all he can fall back on when the world has closed in on him and is gleefully poking him right where it hurts with a stick, over and over again with absolute precision.

“Patients, then,” The doctor grimly concludes without any surprise whatsoever.

“Please help,” Ross quietly says. Alsmiffy has to suppress the urge to look at Ross. Ross has never sounded so pained or looked stricken before (not including the one time he’d accidentally eaten chocolate hazelnut spread before a robbery).

“Very well, follow me.” The doctor emerges from their office, locking the door behind them. In the light, turning their back on the two (well, three) reveals a blond, neat ponytail that the light of the hallway renders orange.

They lead Ross and Alsmiffy along the hallway into an examination room, the ceiling lights automatically brightening upon entry. Equipment that should have hummed flash, the screens idling with patterns drawn from landscapes twisted into pleasing minimalism; it makes Alsmiffy’s eyes ache to stare at them. The lack of ambient noise creeps Alsmiffy out.

While Ross deposits Trottimus onto the strangely smooth table in the centre, Alsmiffy’s eyes are drawn up to the horrible machine rigged up to the ceiling in the next room over, through the tinted glass.

The table Ross transfers Trottimus onto possesses no visible legs, hovering via some sort of mechanism that Alsmiffy does not give a single fuck about. However, what he does give a fuck about is where that table is headed.

He’s heard of what the mechanical beast is capable of and frankly, cutting up Trottimus (in his current state) without any warning sounds counterproductive. 

“You’re not taking him in there, not without telling us what you’re going to do.” Alsmiffy blocks the ‘table’ by boldly putting himself in front of it. Detecting an imminent collision, it stops short of hitting him in the abdomen.

“I’m only going to have a look at his wounds. No surgery until then,” is the cryptic explanation. The doctor’s fingers are drumming against the curved handles. The polite and yet, irritated expression on their face tells Alsmiffy that they’d like to run him over with said trolley  _ if he doesn’t move in the next ten seconds.  _

Ross’ hand latches onto Alsmiffy’s arm, clawed fingers threatening to break his arm by pricking his skin through the material of his jacket. Alsmiffy’s danger instincts scream and flee as fast as possible, throwing themselves out of the nearest window (even if said window is a thousand metres above solid ground).

“You’ve done enough,” Ross growls to him, a feral note bumping a few consonants down (and up) an octave. 

The doctor shoots a quizzical look at Ross, mouth twitching as though they’d like to ask him questions. Alsmiffy misses it in favor of staring into Ross’ eyes that are lit up with a yellow burning with a menacing fury that’d only been kept in check by the job at hand. 

Now that job is almost about to be handed over, there’s nothing to stop Ross from actually breaking or mauling his arm on the spot.

Alsmiffy has two choices and either way, the suffering will continue. One involves suffering slightly less. He takes it, stepping back.

The doctor sweeps past him, sarcastically muttering, “ _ Thank you _ .” Just in time, Alsmiffy refrains from sticking his leg out, choking off a situation potentially sliding from ‘bad’ to ‘worse’.

Mollified, Ross lets go of Alsmiffy once the doors to the next room whoosh shut, withdrawing his hand to let it simply hang by his side. Without his jacket, Alsmiffy can see that Ross’ shirt is soaked through with a week’s worth of sweat. It’s only been half an hour, and yet, it feels as though a whole week’s been squeezed into that time.

Time refuses to run linearly. That’s another reason why Alsmiffy dislikes hospitals. Time just seemed to sink in around them, defying requests. There’s never enough when there needs to be.

Exhaustion scraping at the back of his eyeballs, Alsmiffy sinks onto one of the chairs. Paradoxically, it helps him resist the childish temptation to instantly pass out. The cynical, adult part of him sneers that the world isn’t as simple as that, but a part of him argues back ‘yeah, but I could do with the sleep, so shut the fuck up’.

The sound of measured footsteps approaching snaps Alsmiffy out of mental limbo, harshly ejecting him into reality once again. He’d been leaning against the back of the chair, arms folded over his chest, legs crossed with his head tilted down.

The whole position’s made him unnecessarily tense all over, bestowing a stewing crankiness that would have made itself known by snapping, “What?” at the nearest person.

That person happens to be Ross. Ross lifts his tired face to the doctor. The set way the doctor holds themself bothers Alsmiffy. News is news, so he bites his tongue and braces himself to hear the worst. 

What he gets instead is, “He’s alive-”

Ross’ face gets stuck on confusion, then catapults into relief. “That’s great-” A held up hand interrupts Ross’ joyful exclamation.

“When I said ‘alive’, that doesn’t include ‘being in any fit condition to move or be awake’,” The doctor finishes like Ross hadn’t spoken.

“Why isn’t he  _ awake _ ?” Alsmiffy has stood up and is towering over the doctor before he can help it.

The doctor puts down their hand, regarding Alsmiffy with an aloof expression. “If I woke him up now, he’d just end up screaming-” The matter-of-fact tone is like a piece of gravel loose in his shoe, grating against parts of him that it shouldn’t be.

“What’s wrong with him?” Ross demands, standing up to get ready to tackle Alsmiffy if Alsmiffy even so much as lifts a finger. The beard, combined with his disheveled appearance lends him the impression of being dangerously unhinged (than usual, to Alsmiffy).

“If not from the pain of the burns, then what he’d see in the mirror,” The doctor explains with far too much patience that neither Ross or Alsmiffy feel they deserve. 

One of the monitors’ black faces lurches backwards, wiping the image of a field on it. In its place is an intricately layered, full-body scan of a human body seen from above.

Almost the whole image, save for the face and head, is painted the color of pain, a stark red that makes Alsmiffy think of bruises far too purple impressed onto skin until blood burst through skin, of crushing humiliation where vengeance begins to seep into one’s thoughts, and he’s never seen red as he’s seen red before.

“What-” Ross sharply inhales as he takes in the image. His fingers curl into his palms, his quiet horror washing over Alsmiffy to draw him in as well.

“This is all the damage from the burns.” The doctor points out, tracing a portion of red with their fingertip. Alsmiffy is far too busy staring at all the red on the monitor to pay attention.  _ This _ is what he did.  _ This _ is what Trottimus had chosen to suffer through. “I do however, have an unusual solution.”

The speed at which Alsmiffy latches onto the word ‘solution’ would have obliterated the sound barrier. “Whatever it is, we’ll pay for it!” He fumbles a few green, crumpled notes out of his pocket with a crinkle, only for the doctor to speak again.

“It might not work,” The doctor warns in a practiced voice. Coupled with the look of déjà vu they’re wearing, it’s like they’ve warned people that they’re about doing something incredibly unwise and yet, inevitably knows that said people will end up doing it anyway. Warning disregarded, the most that they’ll do is sigh and patch them up the best they can, after.

“It has to!” Ross counters. It’s awful how hopeful he sounds. All it does is dump a metric ton of salt onto the wound that’s opened up in Alsmiffy. It’s not a physical wound.

The doctor doesn’t miss a beat to mechanically recite, “In doing so, you agree to whatever terms and conditions I set for and as part of the treatment from this point on, on the patient’s behalf.” 

After a moment without needing to look at each other, the two nod. Ross opens his mouth to say, “Thank-”

“Save your thanks.” The doctor moves towards the door to leave, pausing to add, “Well, it shouldn’t take me more than fifteen minutes to get what I need. Under no circumstances are you to leave this floor.” The last sentence implies that the deal is off if they so much as sneeze near the lift.

Alsmiffy misses the chance to snap back. The doctor’s already striding off towards the lift, gone from sight. Unable to help himself, Alsmiffy steps towards the tinted glass to peer through it, trying to conceal his lurking fear (and failing spectacularly) with impassiveness.

Trottimus lies still on the operating table underneath the machine with its many, spider-like arms. At the end of every metal branch is a series of delicate, curved, viciously sharp needles that reminded Alsmiffy of teeth waiting to sink into a presented flank.

He considers breaking into the room to check Trottimus’ pulse. Facing the monitor with the body map, Alsmiffy glances towards one corner. There, a single green line jerks up, falling down, up, up, down, down again informs him that he need not act rashly.

Waiting is all that he and Ross can do. Ross spends the time staring into the air with a blank look on his face. The image is of a lost dog, remembering the way home and upon arrival, the owner is nowhere to be found. 

Without hesitation, the old Alsmiffy would have kicked the downed dog. The new Alsmiffy doesn’t know what to do aside from sit back down and fucking wait, stringing out the exhaustion to mind-numbing levels.

It takes the doctor forty-five minutes to return. Paced footsteps along the hall announce their return. They’re carrying an item. It’s a sealed yellow box haphazard taped all over with the words ‘BIOHAZARD’ blazing in black print that even a blind man couldn’t have missed. 

With every step, the box emits muffled clinking sounds. It reminds Alsmiffy of drying glass beakers colliding along their racks.

“What’s in the box?” Ross is already asking the question Alsmiffy would have asked, if Alsmiffy hadn’t been occupied with displacing the exhaustion with the renewed relief. A tentative strength to see the night through has taken root in him, even if he has to stay awake for a week.

They’ve overcome the initial obstacle and yet, he can’t help but fret that the worst is yet to arrive, disguised as a blessing.

The doctor protectively hefts the box closer to their body when Alsmiffy glances over. Alsmiffy almost bristles at the notion that he would have tried to snatch the box from them to see what’s in it. 

For some reason, the idea of peering into the box garners the feeling that doing so would strip away all hope of saving Trottimus, and Alsmiffy has never been one for superstitions (because sometimes, it’s either break a mirror or actually break his leg).

What’s next? Will he start to chase cars with Ross at his side, spend his time howling at the moon, and sniffing backsides? At this point, Alsmiffy is open to having his world flipped upside-down if it meant getting Trottimus back.

The doctor nods at the chairs, then points with one hand towards their office. “The kitchen has coffee. It’ll be a while.” 

It’s pointless to ask how long they’ll be operating. Knowing as much, Alsmiffy and Ross troop off towards the kitchen to help themselves. The coffee eases them into waiting, a distraction to occupy their restless hands and minds.

When Ross turns on the ECHOset, the sound is simply to fill in the time; they’ve both had enough of agonizing silence. The late-night shows bore into both of their skulls to the point of tears, muting whatever they’re both feeling since there’s no alcohol at hand to do the job instead.

At some point, the probing curiousness of Alsmiffy’s mind frees itself from the compelling grip of the show. The show’s about a surgeon (the word always said and spelled with a capital S, for some idiotic, pretentious reason) running around putting historical health blunders right, at the risk of unraveling the future. Their irate assistant is always bemoaning something or other, endlessly whining.

Ross seems to be enjoying it, if enjoying it is mixed in with bouts of yawning, gnawing at his knuckles and staring into the back of the ECHOset.

Alsmiffy closes his eyes. He’s retrieving a near-perfect, over-the-shoulder memory of the doctor walking into the operating room with the tiny yellow box.

Right, they’d have opened it by now and fetched whatever is in there, not with their bare hands; always gloved. Alsmiffy pictures the solution as a vials of liquid contained in syringes. The syringes probably went into the machine-  _ wait _ , didn’t burn victims need grafts or something like that?

Alsmiffy knocks over his chair as he flees the kitchen, sprinting towards the operating room. Ross is already withdrawing from whatever safe haven he’d gone off to. “Alsmiffy, come back-” Alsmiffy ignores the dismayed shout.

The door admits Alsmiffy with an expectant air. He’s pressing up against the glass, palms flat, doing his best to see what the everloving fuck the doctor is doing to Trottimus. The doctor is definitely in there, the arms of the machine moving over Trottimus, being directed into place by whatever entity is controlling it or the doctor. The doctor’s silhouette stills.

Alsmiffy has a feeling that he’s just been spotted.

The glass blurs, darkening to block the view. Enraged at being denied the chance to watch, Alsmiffy raises a hand, no longer content with keeping what he’s been feeling throughout the whole night bottled up inside of him. He moves to punch the glass at the cost of his hand- Ross’ hand gently curls over his shoulder. With that touch, everything that he feels courses into Alsmiffy, both connections electric, a live current of mutual emotions.

Beaten, Alsmiffy sinks onto bony knees that’ve been replaced with lead. Both his fingertips scrape their way down the glass, eventually meeting the plaster wall underneath the impenetrable pane.

He is  _ sorry _, and it will never be enough.

Without a word, Ross patiently coaxes him up onto his feet, leading him back to the kitchen.

The coffee is probably the best that they’ve had in their entire lives but if Trottimus isn’t here to share it with them, it’s pointless, pointless like Alsmiffy’s existence. It’s pointless to remember what the coffee had tasted like, as is the rest of the waiting period between the doctor walking away and them walking out of that room.

A tentative knock on the doorframe announces the doctor’s entrance. Ever the optimist, Ross glances up with eyes full of hope, forgetting his exhaustion to await the outcome. As the resident pessimist, Alsmiffy expects the opposite.

Raising a tired eyebrow, the doctor delivers a theatrical pause that would have earned an instant throttling from Alsmiffy, if Alsmiffy didn’t care about the news they’re bearing.

“The operation went smoothly, though I’d advise you to not remove the dressings until-” Somehow, Ross has instantly bounded over to bear-hug the doctor, letting out a loud, relieved sob. The doctor masks their surprise with a polite, awkward cough. A hand awkwardly pats Ross’ arm. “Is that out of your system yet? I need to talk you through the aftercare.”

“What aftercare?” Alsmiffy doesn’t care if he sounds as if he’s got the brain of an amoeba.

The news is taking an awfully long time to sink into his mind. He’s been so hellbent on the other outcome that his mind is simply refusing to accept that Trottimus is going to  _ live.  _ It hadn’t occurred to him as to what he’d do if a dead Trottimus had happened instead. 

All Alsmiffy wants to do is stagger over to the sink and throw up, finally escaping the brutal rollercoaster of emotions that’s basically been the whole night.

“Trottimus isn’t in any condition to look after himself. I’ve written up some simple instructions.” With difficulty, given Ross is still embracing them, the frowning doctor extracts a blue, paper-thin holographic file from their arm. Alsmiffy won’t even argue against the assumption that the three of them are living together.

“Ross, put down the doctor.” Alsmiffy leans over to take it, flicking it on once his thumb’s found the catch on the side. Bulky paragraphs spill out across the transparent display. He doesn’t have the attention span to figure what it’s all about, so he just drops it into his inventory for now.

Ross lets down the doctor as though they’re a national treasure (to him, they probably are). “Can we go and see Trottimus now?” The intense look the doctor gets indicates that ‘no’ isn’t an option.

“You can,” The doctor easily responds, once they've shook themselves to regain their composure (not like they’ve lost it in the first place). They lead the way into a different room, one set at the end of the hallway on the left. 

A dozing Trottimus is laid out on the operating table, simply garbed in a hospital gown. The shredded remains of Trottimus’ clothes are conveniently gathered in a bag. The soft, warm lighting makes the sight oddly ethereal. Just like that, the nightmare’s become a dream. Somebody pinch Alsmiffy already.

He engraves the sight into the memory of the night; the look on Trottimus’ face is one of slumber earned after a giant ordeal, where the deepest sleep could cure death or some poetic bullshit like that. Alsmiffy is inclined to correct it as ‘the deepest sleep  _ is  _ death’ (and he forgets where he originally saw that quote, but that’s not important). Given the circumstances, he refrains. He’d rather off himself than jinx the recovery.

“Can we take him home now?” Ross is already by the table, leaning over Trottimus to stroke a limp strand of brown hair out of the way. The tender look on his face lances through Alsmiffy’s ragged heart.

“You have to, I’m afraid. He’s not officially a patient.” The doctor nods at the lift back down the hall, hands finding their way into the pockets of his scrubs. “Please be careful when carrying him out. I don’t think he can handle a head injury on top of the burns.”

Ross spawns one of Trottimus’ clean set of clothes, stepping over to carefully strip Trottimus of the hospital gown. The doctor moves to open a cupboard to retrieve whatever’s in there.

Alsmiffy takes in the intricate layer of bandages all along Trottimus’ body as Ross suits up Trottimus. Nudity’s not an issue for three people constantly bouncing between the cheapest of places. Said places tended to offer one bed and bathroom. Since they’d all needed to go places, often together, at the same time, to say that three’s a crowd is an understatement.

A medical kit is roughly shoved into Alsmiffy’s idle hands. Automatically, he suppresses the impulse to let gravity deal with it. “Use the stuff inside. You have an hour to get out,” The doctor crisply says.

Shock that it’s been  _ hours  _ strike Alsmiffy like a lightning bolt. Ross’ face mirrors his incredulity. There’d been a clock in the kitchen but it’d been practically invisible, miraculously cloaked with the need to bear the present without all thought of the future intruding on their silent vigil.

“We need to pay you,” Ross finally says, thickly. His beard glitters from tears of happiness. Needing no further prompting, Alsmiffy moves to grab all the cash he’d been carrying, only to freeze when the doctor shakes their head.

“No pay, and I’m not handing you over to the law either.” The fact that the doctor also suspects that they’re not law abiding citizens is the lesser concern, overshadowed by the first two words of their sentence.

“ _ What _ ?” Both Ross and Alsmiffy chorus together. That goes against everything that Alsmiffy had believed. In a better place, Trottimus continues to sleep.

The doctors of this hospital are particularly clear cut about the price of their services, even if services had to resort to taking everything of value from a patient. It’s not unusual to hear of people praising the establishment one day, then cursing them to high heavens the next once the bill arrived.

“As I recall, you agreed ‘to whatever terms and conditions I set for and as part of the treatment from this point on, on the patient’s behalf’,” The doctor flatly quotes. “It’s all in the blue document I handed you.”

Alsmiffy retrieves said file, forcing himself to squint at the text. He's so burnt out on everything that reading requires a concentrated effort.

In tiny print, there is indeed, such a clause. Alsmiffy stashes the file back into his inventory, nodding in the way of confirmation. “He’s right, we can’t pay him.” Saving Trottimus’ life has spared the doctor from the fate of being tied up and being showered with dollar bills. “It’s not as if we can  _ make _ you take the money,” Alsmiffy muses out loud, relying on the doctor’s sharp mind to interpret his implication. 

The doctor shifts, their arms rising to fold over their chest. Their coat’s missing, replaced with clean, pale blue surgical scrubs. In any other situation, their visible light effort to disguise their discomfort would have spurred Alsmiffy to take advantage of it.

“I would prefer it if you didn’t, seeing as I had to stoop to less than legal measures to save your friend.”

“What did you do?” Ross asks in a low voice. Ross’ glance snaps to the peacefully slumbering Trottimus in his arms, eyes sweeping over the bandage peeking out under the collar of the badly buttoned shirt. No more pain, only sleep.

The doctor frowns, appearing to be caught between telling the truth or striding out of the room. Falling victim to an automatic impulse, Alsmiffy is blocking their only means of leaving, hands coming up to fold over his chest, mimicking them. “We need to know. ‘Informed consent’, right?” It’s only with major effort on his part that his words aren’t backed by a nasty sneer and a threat.

“Fine.” The doctor proceeds to reveal, “Let’s just say that in the morning, some researchers are going to go ballistic over some missing experimental skin grafts.” The fingers on their arms crease the sleeves of their scrubs. They stare into Alsmiffy’s face, defiantly tilting their chin up.

“We’d thought you’d fix him up proper, not make him a, a, test subject for your fucking experiments!” Alsmiffy’s leaning down to take in the doctor’s unfazed expression. Lesser people would be down on their knees already, begging to be let off the hook.

“I didn’t say ‘legally’ get what I need, I said-” The doctor recalls, loudly enunciating their words like Alsmiffy and Ross' are dim-witted morons.

“We know what you fucking said!” Ross shouts, his voice glancing off the inside of the room. There’s no intimidating growl as part of the undertone; Ross is entirely human at that second and he is rendered vulnerable, with gratitude his body or voice can’t contain. “But why would you go to all this trouble?”

The doctor has the look of someone who is debating whether or not they’ll be believed if they tell the truth. “I was just doing my job,” They eventually concede, gaze softening. The two don’t doubt the honest glint that appears in their eyes.

“No, no, that can’t be it!” Alsmiffy is crossing the room to Ross’s side, then back again, agitated. A stool is ruthlessly kicked aside. “There has to be more to it! You want to blackmail us, don’t you?” He jabs an accusing finger at the doctor. “Right?” The last part remains uncertain as to whether Alsmiffy is addressing himself or the doctor.

“You are wasting your breath.” The doctor critically eyes him, feathers still unruffled. “You should leave the hospital, and as a suggestion, the planet.” As soon as possible, is the part he doesn’t need to voice.

“Let’s go,” Ross says, turning towards the lift before Alsmiffy can open his mouth again to suggest manhandling the doctor into taking the money. “We’re in your debt.” He nods at them. “If there’s anything we can do, just say-”

“I doubt we’ll ever meet again, so if we do run into each other again, please kindly pretend we know nothing about each other’s existences.” The doctor escorts them as far as the lift. “This operation never officially happened.”

“Alright, we get it,” Alsmiffy says with gritted teeth.

“Thank you. We’ll never forget your help!” Ross shouts as the doors chime shut. He Barely catches a soft, disdainful snort answering him in lieu of a ‘you’re welcome’. Five seconds later, Ross swears. “We didn’t even get their name!”

“Ross, forget about it, we’ve got Trottimus. It’s not like we can leave a ‘thank you’ card.” Alsmiffy begins laughs at the idea. Then keeps laughing, causing Ross to throw him concerned looks until the lift’s stopped. Shit, what a fucking night.

All they need to do is get out of the hospital. Fortunately, nobody gets in their way because nothing, not even a whole planet, would have stopped them from stealing Trottimus away, into the new dawn.

\--

Trottimus wakes with a minor fit, owing to the two musty, woollen blankets carefully draped over him. He would have thrown them off if it hadn’t been for one important observation: he’s naked, save for the poorly wrapped layer of bandages covering every bit of skin below his neck.

He’d expected to be greeted by an absurd amount of pain smashing into his existence. There’s only the mild sensation that  _ something _ had been altered without his knowledge, as though someone secretly came into his room and shifted everything to the left a few inches. Otherwise, it (‘it’ consisting of the whole of reality, plus his own being) all checks out. Or as well as it can be.

The room has only one, surprisingly wide bed shoved in the corner. He’s the only occupant. Pillows stuffed with far too feathers form a nest around and under his head. One’s fallen onto the floor. There’s enough space to roll over twice and really spread himself out, if he’d felt like it. Alas, he’s not in the mood to laze around.

His brief appraisal of the room informs him that Alsmiffy’s head would have brushed the ceiling if Alsmiffy had been half a metre taller. The room’s large enough to comfortably fit another bed in of the same size, plus have space left over to allow a whole suite of living room furniture.

The ceiling has a suspicious red stain on it. It’s almost hidden by the maroon paint and the light fittings set into it. The light’s been adjusted to a comfortable level that allows him to see what he’s doing without his eyes watering. The thermostat’s making the room warm to the point of drowsiness.

It takes Trottimus a few seconds to determine that the thin, copper colored series of sweeping metal plates installed in the wall is a desk. Crammed in underneath (with the legs sticking out) are two mismatching chairs in the same style; one is a cool grey, the other matches the desk.

There’s a bunch of digistruct modules left to chill on the desk. Several are tipped onto their sides. One is left to stare at the ceiling. Trottimus automatically picks out the ones with the chipped corners and the peeling animal stickers pasted on the back.

Wherever he is, Alsmiffy and Ross have to be close by for them to leave their modules here. The three of them wouldn’t be so lax as to go walkabout without some sort of gun or bludgeoning tool, let alone modules.

Hazy flashes of memory crawl up out of the depths of his mind, waiting to be picked over the second. Trottimus casts about for the one that might explain how he’d woken up in this room.

Nothing else in the room proves helpful to add context, and he’s loathe to examine the events preceding the bit involving fire, Alsmiffy- _ Alsmiffy.  _

A cringing, strangled sound tears itself free before it can be corralled back. It echoes around the metal walls of the room, changing the comfortable silence into one that Trottimus can’t stand, like the blankets on top of him.

One goes flying across the room to slide down the wall, ending up in a forlorn heap on the floor. The other one gets draped around his hips; Trottimus has to arch off the bed to work it underneath his bare butt. Now straddling the boundaries between ‘nude’ and ‘partially dressed’, Trottimus hauls his ass off the bed to grab his modules.

What  _ happened _ to him? 

His divided mind is playing silly buggers. His more inquisitive self wishes to find out, only to be barred by the part that’s beginning to fire off signals of nausea-inducing panic mixed in with a ridiculous amount of revulsion than he knows what to do with. The part hiding everything that’d happened is constructing barricades as fast as they’re being dismantled. 

The circular game doesn’t seem likely to stop soon so Trottimus deliberately switches tact. He’s only hobbled two steps forward when the door flies open.

A high-pitched scream greets Ross. Ross blinks at a half-clothed Trottimus in the middle of reaching for his digistruct modules. 

“You shouldn’t be up yet!” Ross drops the tray of wrapped sandwiches onto the desk, hustling Trottimus back towards the bed with a hassled, motherly air. That’s  _ new _ . Never in his life has Ross ever acted as such. It stuns him, allowing Ross to move him without a fuss.

Trottimus finds himself being firmly seated on the bed. Ross has picked up the other blanket and is tenderly dropping it around Trottimus’ bare shoulders. Trottimus’ own hands are already tugging it into place so it doesn’t slide off. The tray is carried over.

An unwrapped disaster of a sandwich is being pressed into a hand. A slice of oily bacon lazily flops out, followed by a squashed piece of melting cream cheese, a pathetic circular bit of tomato and too much of a crinkly, green, leafy thing. It’s lettuce, surprisingly fresh, once Trottimus has deigned to take an experimental bite. 

He hadn’t realised he’d been hungry he is. He’s  _ ravenous _ . The sight of the sandwich causes an alarming amount of saliva to well up in his mouth. While chewing, Trottimus watches Ross pick out his own sandwiches from the lot. The bed bounces as Ross seats himself next to him.

In four giant bites, Ross neatly finishes one with so many slices of bacon crammed between the bread. Grinning, he reaches for another, bacon grease streaking the corner of his mouth. The elephant in the room tosses its head. Also, the third member of the trio is nowhere to be seen- right as their absence is noted, the door left open is slammed shut.

Ross only pays it a brief, unreadable glance before returning to wolf down another two sandwiches. 

There’s bags under Ross’ eyes, dark and heavy enough to pass for professional makeup. Those certainly weren’t there the last time that Trottimus saw him. To his knowledge, Ross has always been a diligent sleeper, what with his condition constantly taxing him, so sleep is necessary rather than optional.

“Ross, what’s-” He opens his mouth to ask when Ross impresses another indecent sandwich on him.

“Have another!” Ross’ voice is far too loud and forced. Someone next door bangs on the wall to tell them to ‘shut up’. It’s ignored.

“Ross-” Trottimus finds the sandwich being pushed up to his mouth. He splutters, more out of indignation than the bread preventing him from speaking. He’s forced to munch. Placated, Ross turns away to the rounded window- Trottimus chokes as a crumb goes down the wrong way at the sight. Being thumped on his back frees the crumb. There should have felt pain once he woke up. Why isn’t there any pain _? _ Not getting the memo, his mouths instead voices, “Why are we in  _ space _ ?” 

At the question, Ross’ expression achieves new levels of sheepishness. It ranks first place, above all those times he’d accidentally wrecked Trottimus’ clothes by forgetting the compulsion elicited by a full moon. 

“We’re on a cruise ship,” Ross deigns to quickly say when Trottimus musters up a glare, never mind how the sandwich is being eaten in the meantime.

“A cruise ship,” Trottimus repeats. It raises even more questions than answers. They can’t possibly be on a cruise ship. They don’t even have enough to afford six months in the shittiest of apartments, let alone randomly splurge on a trip.

Ross hands him a flattened brochure that’d been hiding underneath the stack of digistruct modules. Trottimus flips it open to reveal ‘S.S. Titania, Tethys’ premier cruise ship service within the six galaxies and beyond!’. All the usual waffle about the cruise ship plays out, followed by the suite prices.

“How?” is the only question Trottimus decides to ask next. He’s not pleased by the evasiveness, though a part of him pleads for time (he’s not ready for the truth; fuck that, oh yes he is).

With a hand sporting chipped nails, Ross scratches at his beard, the sheepishness abating once he sees that Trottimus isn’t about to throw the brochure at his head. Or the rest of the sandwich. “We had to leave the planet.”

“Why?” The glare penetrates Ross’ conscience. Ross squirms accordingly. “We can’t possibly have stowed away.” Not while bearing one unconscious person on the brink of death.

“Fine, we bought a suite,” Ross mumbles. That’s not the issue here.

Shoving the last of the sandwich into his mouth, Trottimus drops the brochure to rise, stumbling towards the window. Nothing but an ocean of bleak, starry space fills his vision. Well, save for the length of the ship stretching out to his left and right. The pinch to his wrist confirms that it's not some sort of realistic hallucination or dream.

Backing away from the window, Trottimus almost trips over Ross when Ross’ legs meets the back of his knees. “Tell me everything.” When Ross quickly shakes his head, Trottimus’ voice becomes a slap to the face and a knife to the throat. “ _ Now _ .”

Ross caves. Outside, once Ross is done talking, Alsmiffy discards the cold sandwich he’d been holding into the trash, no longer interested in eating. No amount of time could have ever prepared him to face, let alone stand in front of Trottimus again.

\--

The cruise ship eventually becomes a series of shuttles that shrank, each threading their own way between planets, moons, orbiting stations and celestial bodies. Throughout the seemingly never ending transfers, Alsmiffy maintains an aloof distance from Trottimus, the latter’s tolerance for the former buffered by Ross’ presence.

Meek could have described Alsmiffy’s behaviour; remorseful is a much more fitting term. Making amends is not a task that has ever occurred to Alsmiffy, so Trottimus knows that Alsmiffy has no idea where or how to even begin.

With it comes a new pecking order, placing Trottimus at the very top. As expected, Ross in the middle. At the very bottom where Trottimus had once been, sits Alsmiffy. Trottimus takes to the displaced seat of power not with enthusiasm but reluctance. 

Yes, it’d usually been him calling the shots but it’d been with Ross’ cooperation and Alsmiffy fighting them both every step of the way, demanding to have a say in their carefully drafted plans, hankering for a bit of destruction and sowing anarchy wherever they went.

Oddly enough, sometimes that’d been exactly what they needed to see it through. Other times when denied, Alsmiffy moodily retreats into a sulk, displacing the built-up restlessness in the form of nasty personal jabs, mean pranks and over-the-top aggressive actions. 

Trottimus and Ross had felt that he’d burst otherwise; Alsmiffy is one of those people who’d never learned to reign in his emotions, preferring to vent them in whatever way possible.

This time, however, Alsmiffy docilely lets himself be ordered around like a common grunt with no brains. If Trottimus ordered him to jump off the side of the ship, Alsmiffy would have done it without snapping back a sarcastic retort. Silence is the new regime, brokered only by Ross and Trottimus’ neutral voices.

If Alsmiffy ever has to respond beyond a nod or a shake of the head, it’s in a voice devoid of energy. Where he’d once held his head up, proud, never stopping to apologise for anything, ever, his frame is sunken, sagging under the weight of whatever he’s torturing himself with.

Truth be told, the old Trottimus would have immediately forgiven him, anything, to have the old Alsmiffy back. The new Trottimus is so far from the word, let alone the concept, hanging onto the resentment tarnishing their relationship once the memories begin to seep through the cracks. Recovery is boring new holes, reducing the gaps to mere hypotheses.

It’s helped splendidly by Ross’ detailed recollection of the events. Armed with those, Trottimus has been piecing together everything had had led up to the moment the three of them had ended up on the cruise ship. For his efforts, he is rewarded with loathing, directed at himself and Alsmiffy. Trottimus directs no blame in his direction; Ross is far more useful as a middleman.

Between the obedience, the way Alsmiffy mechanically applies himself to whatever task is asked of him and the lack of usual banter, the tepid silence is what’s getting to Trottimus and Ross the most.

Trottimus has a feeling that if he forgave Alsmiffy out of the blue, it’d end up breaking him. He is constantly on the fence about wanting Alsmiffy to pay for what he did, or leave it be, professing an enjoyment of being left alone instead of being hassled every half an hour.

On first day on the cruise ship, Alsmiffy had slunk back into their shared room at night, once the casino had closed up. Trottimus had thrown a boot at him despite Ross’ attempts to mediate. Alsmiffy hadn’t shown up since, not until they’d been ready to leave the ship. 

The question of where Alsmiffy had gone off instead hadn’t been one that Trottimus wanted to investigate. Trottimus had kept to the room, not wanting to explore despite Ross’ repeated attempts to get him to go steal valuables or anything that’s not nailed down from the first class suites.

No matter how hard Ross tries to smooth the interactions, perhaps hoping for the beginnings of reconciliation, Trottimus never goes out of his way to interact with Alsmiffy. It runs in reverse as well.

It’s also costing Ross to pretend that things are back to normal. Trottimus knows that Ross is struggling to make peace with himself as well with the way dynamics have shifted like plate tectonics. None of them know how to get back to familiar territory, stranded miles apart.

If Ross thinks Trottimus will take the first step towards reconciliation, he’s sorely mistaken. That part lies with Alsmiffy alone because it’s Alsmiffy’s fault and no amount of sugar coating can erase the history of  _ being burned alive  _ that’s a part of Trottimus now.

It’s all written on and in his skin.

Trottimus is walking around wearing skin that he’s not sure will ever sit right on him. He’s not even sure if it’s his own skin. Skimming through the text about the grafting procedure had told him that the skin  _ is _ his own. He just hasn’t come around to the idea of accepting it yet. 

The file is starting to develop finger grooves on the sides from the constant handling. There’s a large crack on one corner from when Trottimus had first read it. Unable to believe what they other two had stooped to, to save his life, he’d thrown it down at the bathroom tiles and hyperventilating, collapsed on the seat of the toilet, his mind and body split. 

People say that emerging from a near-death experience grants him a newfound appreciation for life with a free pair of rose-colored glasses. That’s complete and utter bullshit: he’d rather have died being burned alive, rather than live to deal with the injustice that’s called life.

That ruckus resulted in Ross breaking down the bathroom door to reach him but that’s nothing room service won’t fix, given the excuse of Ross’ condition.

The skin grafts consisted of blank matrices of cells coaxed, with a series of carefully formulated injections, into copying his own upon setting. They’re biological engineering marvels; growing cultures that mimicked neighbouring cells is a technology Anshin (or any other) hasn’t quite mastered yet. 

Even now, clinical trials still caused copious amounts of cancer, unusual growths and abnormalities that nothing else could explain left the trails rapidly being abandoned. The results are swept under a carpet. And that’s only the trials on animals.

Not that it’s stopped Anshin from trying where other corporations have thrown their hands up into the air and sought other profitable ventures instead. It’s one of life’s ironies.

The fact that he’s a breathing, living, walking and talking experimental,  _ human _ , subject boasting the most successful amount of skin grafts to date is also another issue.

Every time Trottimus showers, he meticulously examines his body as he would with his surveyors. He’s waiting to feel a lump somewhere, dreading the inevitable moment and having to drag himself to the nearest clinic and hope that he can explain it away as some sort of cancer.

That’s easy to do when the medical databases list more than a hundred thousand causes to a disease humanity should have conquered hundred of years ago. It’s not helped that for every possible cure, some idiot will inevitably stumble across another useful carcinogen and introduce it to the right corporations for the low, low price of a couple billion human lives and suffering.

For what? Oh right, it’s money that makes the world go around, and that’s a bitter pill Trottimus still has trouble swallowing down when the evidence is staring at him right in the face, every single day, in the mirror. 

Not that’s ever gone and produced carcinogens since that’s never been his jam; weapons are more up his alley. He’d rather have the three surveyors be destroyed on his death rather than let unique weapons like those be mass-produced. 

No other series of surveyors are capable of healing and (or) killing in one fell swoop. That and the lack of credit from Hyperion justifies his theft. Whoever had funded the project is probably still salty to this very day.

Now’s not the time to dwell on the problems with the universe, or how broken it is. He’s got enough to worry about, starting with his own damn self. 

It’s the part involving possible bouts of further surgery that frightens Trottimus the most. Even the word itself invites goosebumps that creep up his flesh, the ghost of knives tracing up a vein with obscene care, patiently contemplating the best place to start cutting into him.

In the place between sleep and consciousness, he’s plagued by visions of a blinding light above him. It haloes a shadow of a masked face curtained by neat blond hair. A soft ‘tutting’ is his only warning. 

There is agony as Trottimus is torn apart by spiders, but these spiders had human hands, each finger ending in an instrument of torture. They lean over him, the sharp edges of silver flashing under the light.

The scream won’t leave his mouth because his mouth’s been stitched shut, doubly sealed by an oxygen mask. Trottimus can only watch as his skin’s stripped away from him, layer by layer. 

The chemicals pumping into one frozen hand does nothing to ease the metal meticulously working their way into his melting bloodstream. His heart’s too hot, burning like the rest of him. 

While the knives are always cold, they do nothing to ease the feeling of being burned alive from the inside out (or is it the other way around) and there is nothing he can do to put the blaze out.

The whole inferno scorches him right down to his very soul. Only when he’s burned, leaving nothing else behind, will he be satisfied. Nothing, no more  _ pain.  _ The relief upon dying is all that sustains him.

Sometimes he wakes up screaming, afraid of looking down and be greeted by a body stripped of skin. Ross is wide awake by then to ply him with reassurances that he’s alive, he’s not in a hospital, he’s in safe hands.

The two know that Alsmiffy is also wide awake, once Trottimus has calmed down. Alsmiffy rolls over, always detaching himself from the scene.

\--

They have a shuttle to catch to Pandora. Their expenditures in evading the law where possible have driven them to rely on the last portion of their collective savings. 

Knowing other criminals helped speed up their journey. However, given their rise in their shared bounty boasting a reward that only the most notorious crime lords and the worst kinds of people possessed, help is dwindling, and also, no longer comes cheap.

They’re on their own. Then again, the three are used to operating solo. When it came to the three of them, Trottimus believes that nothing can stand in their way. These days, he hesitates to think as much. He’s gotten used to the reality that their teamwork will never be the same. That doesn’t mean he’ll have to do it with any amount of joy.

With a last call for forgotten carry-on luggage, the shuttle groans as it successfully docks at Helios, Hyperion’s famous space station set at the edge of all known space. Below spins Pandora with its purple scar and orbiting it, the lava cracked, Elpis.

According to the second edition of the guide book (the rewrite sponsored by Hyperion), both places are off-limits to civilians. To three aspiring con artists looking to scrape their way back to the top, it’s definitely not.

Ross is wearing sports sunglasses, leather loafers, a sun visor, plus nondescript ‘civvies’. He’s attempted to comb his beard in the bathroom beforehand so that it’s mostly flat, and not at all, a security threat. The overall effect just makes him look like he’s wearing a bird’s nest around his lower face. He’s an architect headed for one of the few cities below.

Alsmiffy’s gone for the ‘poor, accident prone sod with bandages covering his whole face look’. A legitimate medical bracelet dangles from one skinny, bandaged wrist. He communicates via muffled bouts of exaggerated moaning and excessive sign language. The hosts and hostesses had steered clear of him once he’d began to drink his complimentary lemonade from a straw; he hadn’t found it sour enough. 

The explanation for him is that he’s a reporter on holiday. Five minutes of painful guessing had gradually deciphered that he’s especially looking forward to working on his tan once the bandages come off (if they ever).

Trottimus is disguising as a nerdy sounding businessman selling land deeds for several of the potential mining plots below. Unfortunately, several Hyperion executives had overheard his staged chatter with Ross and expressed interest in his very fake pitches. 

It’d taken fifteen minutes of floundering, dodging further attempts to acquire his card, and one close call with exchanging ECHO numbers before Alsmiffy had stepped in by wanting more ice for his lemonade. He’d knocking it over onto one of the suits, allowing Trottimus to slip away. After, Alsmiffy had pretended that he hadn’t provided the perfect diversion for Trottimus to also pickpocket an access card.

Ross had proceeded to challenge the remaining lot to virtual golf, allowing Alsmiffy and Trottimus the further ‘acquisition of resources’. Namely, stealthily pinching money, pawnable objects and rations. Amazingly, Ross had won a few rounds, considering he’d never played golf in his entire life.

“I play a lot in my spare time,” He’d modestly lied. The toothy grin prevented a number of inquiries into his ‘cheating’.

Ross, Trottimus and Alsmiffy agree to meet in the cafeteria after separating. Alsmiffy saunters off towards the upper floors of the space station (probably to steal from the vendors), only to bump into a Loader and mumble embarrassed apologies, earning mean snickers from those leaving the shuttle.

Trottimus and Ross have forgotten that Alsmiffy can very well act when he wants to, though he hasn’t been his usual self for a while now (that’s several months, at this point).

Mimicking the other passengers, Ross shakes his head, striding off towards the gift shops once directed by a security guard. 

Left to his own devices, Trottimus decides that he can afford to have a look around before meeting up.

Headed around a corner, he suffers a minor collision. He bumps into a blond haired, goggled young man inappropriately dressed for the corporate environment. 

One look and Trottimus can tell that they’re not Hyperion material. They’re too cheerful looking for that, untouched by the soul-sucking environment that’s office work. 

They drop a bundle of trodden on papers that unfurl, revealing a blueprint of a giant, mechanical device shaped like an syringe. Trottimus throws up a mental barrier that makes him grimace. The young man mistakes it for unhappiness at being bumped into.

“Sorry! I’m in a bit of my rush, got to reach my shuttle in ten…” The young man profusely apologises, never exiting their cloud nine even as he picks up his papers. The weighed down belt around their waist jingles. Even the pockets of his jeans clink with items.

Trottimus would recognise the sound of tools anywhere, unable to help envying the young man. His business suit can’t hide his tools without unfortunate bumps forming if he’d tried to stuff a small wrench and a spanner down the front of his- the young man’s pushing through a crowd, gone in the next second.

A bit of rubbery, shiny pink skin lies on the floor. Trottimus stares at it for a moment. The young man had possessed a peeling arm; Trottimus would have offered him moisturiser if his hadn’t run out long ago.

Never mind, he’s got places to be. An hour later, he, Ross and Alsmiffy reunite at the cafeteria. They each have a newspaper propped up in front of their faces, the spread of corporate, propaganda riddled sheafs allow them to huddle close enough.

As usual, Alsmiffy says nothing as Trottimus and Ross begin to exchange their recon information.

“Did you see anything that might help us get down to Pandora?” Trottimus whispers.

“No, but I did get some skag burgers,” Ross happily reports. 

He pulls out said burger to lay it on the table. It’s followed by another, and another. The smell of greasy, oily food fills the air, drawing several hungry looks from onlookers who swiftly change direction towards the cafeteria. Despite Hyperion being one of the biggest megacorporations in the six galaxies, its line of airline food still isn’t quite up to snuff.

“Did you spent all your time just checking out the food?” Trottimus eyes the offering with suspicion. 

His time with Hyperion’s weapons plant has given him enough brushes with its food to avoid it for the rest of his life. He’s still working off the pudginess around his midriff as a result of constantly binging on its limited run of cheeseburgers doubly stuffed with fries.

Ross begins to eat the skag burger, savouring every bite. “We’re not on a job, so I’m not breaking any rules,” He spews through a particularly tough mouthful of meat, bread and condiments. “Besides, I haven’t eaten since we got on that shuttle.” His stomach lets out a sound indicating its pleasure at being filled, and how dare he starve it for a few hours.

“You had five tiny bottles of wine, plus three trays of rations, you greedy fuck,” Alsmiffy rudely points out. Instant silence descends as Trottimus and Ross turn their heads to stare at him. Appearing to regret the move, Alsmiffy hefts the newspaper higher over his face.

“Alsmiffy.” When that earns no response except for Alsmiffy nonchalantly flicking a page over (likely to read the comics and nothing else), Trottimus leans over to tug the newspaper down in one move. 

“I was reading that, you twat!” Alsmiffy growls, a trace of his former self in his tone. He drops the newspaper, folding his arms over his chest to sullenly glare at Trottimus. His gaze bores into the table after a moment. “Forget I said anything,” He mumbles.

“You haven’t said anything until now,” Ross softly observes, laying aside  his newspaper on top of Alsmiffy’s own. “It’s good to hear you talk again.” 

The evident warmth in his voice earns a twitch of Alsmiffy’s lips. “I have been talking!” Alsmiffy begins, then softly adds, ”You just haven’t been listening properly, that’s all.”

That’s a transparent lie. While it’s indeed good to hear the sound of Alsmiffy’s voice, Trottimus is busy pulling himself back from the brink of the horrifying memory surging up out of his mind. The last time he’d heard that voice, it’d been taunting him for letting himself be burned- Ross is looking at him with concern. 

He must be looking like he’s just about to throw up. Trottimus shakes himself back into normalcy, dropping his newspaper onto the floor. A cleaning robot sucks it up with a noisy rustle, sliding off to hoover up a spill several metres away.

“I wasn’t exactly banning you from speaking,” Trottimus loftily says, picking up a burger to pull it apart, giving his hands something to do. He is  _ not  _ going to shock Alsmiffy now with one of his surveyors, no matter how tempting it is. Or has been, in the past months. Between him and Alsmiffy, he’s supposed to be the better person.

Frustrated at the lack of an outlet in regards to his urge to hurt Alsmiffy in some way, Trottimus gives up on his investigation, opening his mouth to bite the burger- Alsmiffy smacks it out of his hand. The burger splats onto the floor.  Trottimus and Ross stare dumbly at it before the latter rounds angrily on Alsmiffy.

“That was a perfectly good burger!” Ross yells, knocking the table over to glare at Alsmiffy, who’s also risen to his feet. Newspaper pages float down around them.

The cleaning bot happily chips as it U-turns towards the newly created mess. “What was that for?” Trottimus snaps at him, crouching to try to salvage the burger. The bot is nudging his boot to get at the bit of green sticking out under one sole. 

“In case you didn’t notice, there were sleeping pills in those burgers!” Alsmiffy shouts back at Ross. “Those assholes are trying to knock us out-” Trottimus’ eyes spot the tiny pill on the floor. The bot runs over it, sucking the evidence up into its depths. Ross has also seen it, judging by the sudden green tint to his face. 

Trottimus is prevented from speaking by the sound of guns being drawn and pointed. He lifts his head to see a circle of burly, custard colored armoured security guards surrounding them.

“I didn’t want to do this, but put your hands up right where I can see them!” One of the guards bellows in a voice that bounces off every metal surface within a hundred metres.

“You shouldn’t use that tone, that gives them the idea that you’re a bully,” The one next to him automatically chastises in a tone so sour, lemons could have sprouted where the words fell. “It should be like this.” They step forward, nodding politely at the trio. A pittance of a cough clears their throat. “Put your hands up and you ain’t getting shot where the sun don’t shine!” They scream in a drill sergeant's voice that has the trio standing up straighter.

“We talked about this, you can’t backtalk me in public,” The other guard hisses, sounding put upon at being shown up.

“I will if I want to! I’ve had enough of you walking all over me!” Several of the other guards shake their heads like the bickering’s normal. 

One of the guards leans forward to whisper to the three, “They’re undergoing marriage counselling. The therapist said that they had to talk more about what’s on their minds, but they misunderstood.” A sheepish chuckle follows. “But, er, we’ll still shoot you if you look like you’re about to try anything.”

“Have you considered becoming better security guards instead?” Alsmiffy snaps, nonetheless, keeping his hands held up high where they can be seen. The one whispering to them lets out a hurt sound, leaning back.

“We haven’t shot you for doing nothing, so I think we’re doing pretty good.” Their tone is frosty. Trottimus almost feels sorry for them.

Bearing a nervous grin that unnerves a few of the guards (causing them to step back slightly), Ross smacks Alsmiffy in the back of the head. “He didn’t mean it, he’s just cranky because he hasn’t had his afternoon nap yet.” 

“I’m about to throw the mother of all tantrums,” Alsmiffy dryly says, swiftly recovering from the blow with a mulish air. 

His index fingers curl down, followed by his middle ones, initiating a countdown that simultaneously entertains and baffles the guards still watching. Both of Alsmiffy’s boots ground against the floor, the movements exaggerated to disguise the cylindrical gas canisters digistructing underneath Alsmiffy’s trench coat, adding telltale bulges to his frame.

Trottimus and Ross step away. They take a personal moment to share alarmed looks that’s their own personal code to duck. It’d taken the two a few days to perfect the art of conveying messages with a single look. It’s all in the eyebrows, see.

“Grown man throwing a tantrum in the middle of the cafeteria, eh? That’ll be a story for the water cooler,” chortles an oblivious guard.

“Wah,” Alsmiffy sarcastically drawls, spawning both of his gloves in the next second and opening his palms to unleash hell. 

Having anticipated it, Trottimus closes his eyes, trusting Ross (who is less daunted) to drag him out of harm’s way once the screaming starts. His shield braces against a round of gunfire that staggers him, separating him from Ross. He falls forward, eyes flying open. 

Ross has sprung away to deal with the offender, picking them up to brandish them like a shield to cover him and Trottimus. The guard’s face is turning blue under their helmet from the choke hold.

“Don’t hurt them, we’re taking them in alive for the bounty!”

“No, don’t shoot me either, I don’t want to die a vir-”

“You think all that money will  _ save _ our marriage?”

“Well, I thought it could buy you some fucking consideration for a change!”

“Fire’s useless on our armor!” crows a guard cornering Alsmiffy, only to be shot in the leg with an ricocheting electrified bolt, earning a scream as he’s both electrocuted and scorched.

“Hey! I thought they fixed that bug!”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

“Not in these ones!” Ducking Ross tossing aside the terrified guard that’d served as their cover, Trottimus weighs up the risk of spawning the other combat surveyor. Fuck it, it’s been a while, it’ll appreciate the air time. He lobs it into the air to join its twin, the two surveyors flying into a horde of identical ones carrying parcels.

None of the guards dare to fire at the parcels or the surveyors. In the confusion, Ross melees a few guards, tossing them into tables, breaking furniture over their heads, uprooting blocky shrubs to club others. 

“I’ve always wanted to do this!” Ross calls out, sounding thrilled to be wielding greenery. “Flower power, bitches!” A guard shrieks as thorns scratch their way down one exposed arm where their armor’s taken too many hits.

Not at all daunted by the number of people and machines trying to fight him, Alsmiffy moonwalks while holding off several Loaders smartly keeping their distance from the crackling wall of fire. He spots Ross’ weapon. “Ross, hold the bush out!” Alsmiffy shouts, extending a hand out.

Ross obliges with a shower of leaves, thrusting the shredded shrub out. A spurt of flame ignites the leaves before Alsmiffy charges out of the way of a Loader aiming to pin him against a wall. Trottimus lobs a grenade in its direction. 

It probably says a lot about Hyperion skimping on safety measures by not installing sprinklers in the space station’s ceilings to counter fire.

“Oh no, tell Loader #459077 I-” the Loader intones before the explosion tears it apart. It’s still standing in spite of its single, blue eye losing its spark.

“Oh  _ hell yes. _ ” Sporting a new shit-eating grin, Ross swings down the flaming bush using a two-handed grip. The air above the bush curls and sags, surrendering to fuel the fire.

The blow sends the charred remains of the Loader flying into a vending machine. Rations pour out of the crumpled slot. Trottimus takes the time to loot a few before another Loader tries to take his head off with a swing.

He ducks and rolls, summoning his last surveyor so that it explodes against the robot, the two wrecks falling with a crash to the floor. Trottimus emerges out of the roll, sprinting towards Ross as an army of Loaders march into the ruined cafeteria. 

“We need to go! There are reinforcements on the way!” He’s not panicking; panicking his for chumps. Instead, his mind’s picking through Plan B. Plan B is to beat it and think of Plan C.

“But I’m having a great time!” Ross is still carrying the burning bush, relishing the demolishing crunch of another Loader suffering his fiery wrath. “Don’t stop me now, I’m just getting started!”

“You won’t be, if we get surrounded again!” Trottimus tugs on his arm to direct his attention the Loaders bearing down on them, even through furniture and downed guards.

Sighing dramatically, Ross dunks the bush in the fountain with much hissing and steam. “Where’s Alsmiffy?” The two spot Alsmiffy a few metres away. 

By now, the cafeteria’s devoid of other humans, sans the guards. If it’d been a food fight, it’d have become a mob (and the three should know, because that’d been  _ something _ when shopping for the triple bunk bed). The few guards still on their feet are marshalling the Loaders off their wounded comrades and into position to fire. The bounty appears to be on nobody’s minds.

“Thatta boy,” Alsmiffy laughs, pinning down a trapped, covering guard with a wall of fire, watching them sprint from one side to another, the heat cooking them alive. With his blood sinking to below freezing point, Trottimus strides over and taps Alsmiffy on the shoulder. “What?” He snarls upon finding his fun interrupted.

“Let him go.” Trottimus stares into the lens of his mask. His three surveyors (two making noises indicative of spontaneously combusting in the next thirty seconds) circle above him. Any one of them could peel off to deliver Alsmiffy to his maker. All he had to do is give the command. Just one word.

With dawning horror at the act he’s committing, Alsmiffy despawns the gloves in record time. “I didn’t think-” A wary look is directed at the surveyors guarding Trottimus. The guard freed from the inferno begins to crawl towards reinforcements, whimpering their thanks.

Trottimus doesn’t bother to respond, leading the way towards the shuttle; with any luck, the young man will still be docked and they can steal his shuttle. 

No longer needed for the time being, the two airborne surveyors (with one about to burst into flames) vanish into his inventory. The urge to hurt Alsmiffy huffs, retreating from the front row, still presently watching the situation like a hawk to possibly make Alsmiffy’s life miserable.

More guards appear around the corner, spotting them with shouts and ready guns. Alsmiffy lobs a grenade towards them, scattering the cluster to let the trio blast through. Ross follows it with a bout of corrosive gunfire, flecks of acid chewing at the walls and doors in their wake. 

Alarms begin to shrilly blare above their heads, red lights blinking in time to the hair-raising racket. Metal shutters start to drop along the doorways, sealing off offices, rooms and residences.

One almost shears Alsmiffy in half, forcing him to flatten himself on the ground to avoid slamming his head into the metal. Ross shoves a hand under the edge, grunting as he bends the shutter upwards to let the three of them duck under. 

“That almost took out my arm,” He grunts, shaking his numbing arm out once he’s let go of it.

“We’re getting sealed in,” Trottimus warns, anxiously watching the hallways ahead get locked down, shutter after shutter falling and sending the sound of metal crashing cascading towards them. “They’re trying to trap us in here!” It looks like Hyperion’s still trying to take them alive.

“Ross, do your thing,” Alsmiffy snaps. Fire is useless on the shutters after an experimental attempt to melt through one (which Trottimus remains as far away as possible from).

There’s an embarrassed, confused pause following an expectant one. The other two turn to Ross when nothing happens. “I’m too hungry,” Ross admits, flashing a sheepish grin like it might excuse his inability to transform and break the goddamned shutters down so they can  _ escape. _

“What do you mean, you’re too  _ hungry _ ?” Alsmiffy properly rounds on him, sounding as incredulous as Trottimus feels and looks.

The latter realises that it’s the first time since the Incident that they've both agreed. Trottimus finds that it makes him physically ill; he’s a long way from bestowing forgiveness on anybody (let alone himself). 

He turns away to examine the only door in the hallway that’s not barred, hoping that the other two haven’t noticed his momentary lapse in attention owing to his temporary distress.

Fortunately, Ross is too busy snapping back at Alsmiffy, “That’s why I was eating earlier, just in case something like this happened!”

“Oh, you could have just stuffed your face way sooner -” Alsmiffy fires back, letting out a burst of hot air that proceeds to instantly frizzle Ross’ hair and beard from the sudden, immense blowback of heat.

Trottimus neglects to point out that the sleeping pills would have knocked him out. Sleeping pills don’t affect Ross, what with his beast of a metabolism or something like that.

“No! I hate it when it goes frizzy, I spent ages on the combing!” Ross shouts, fingers already trying to minimise the damage. It’s too late, every single exposed hair is back to its default state: naturally wiry and determined to stay that way.

“It’ll be your beard next!” Alsmiffy snarls, still frustrated that the shutters are fireproof. He kicks one, leaving no damage behind.

“How about I use your head instead, that might help-” Ross proposes, moving to pick Alsmiffy up and use him as a battering ram.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Trottimus says, sounding dismayed. “But I think I can break into this room, hold on.” The panel liberated from the wall sparks, spluttering as Trottimus sticks his hand further into its mouth, wrenching out a crucial bundle of wires. The laminated access card he’d looted serves to shear a couple in half so he can thread them together.

The doors spring open. Ross, Alsmiffy and Trottimus peer inside to see what’s in store for them. Their eyes can pick out a variety of items in the muddy darkness. A single strip of light from the hall points towards salvation. 

Of all the shops they’d broken into? This one couldn’t have been more appropriate. 

Guns and weapons line the ordered racks. Tantalising, tastefully designed minimalist posters scroll through their preprogrammed listings at a breakneck pace, throwing them names and models (mostly Hyperion and Hyperion licensed ones). Not a single white quality weapon is in sight. 

Ever hopeful for the elusive tinge of orange, the trio confidentially step into the gun shop, drawn in by the lure of free loot.

“Nobody ever sells rocket launchers,” Alsmiffy complains with one contemptuous look thrown around the room. “That’s discrimination, right there.” Scowling, he busies with looting the cash register after melting the lock off. Of course, before doing so, he snatches up the deadliest looking gun off the rack as before Ross can grab it. 

Not very picky to begin with, Ross simply piles everything he can get his hands on into his inventory. Humming, he inspects a shotgun, briefly squinting down the sights. 

He points it at an innocent flower pot by the window display. The flowerpot shatters, sending clay fragments, the pink and green remains of the plastic plant and globs of fake dirt (carefully painted clumpy, brown wool) raining down onto the floor. Looking pleased by the destruction it wrought, Ross pockets the shotgun at an envious look from Alsmiffy.

Trottimus makes do with snatching up every elemental weapon, including one lovely number that’s an assault rifle, brand new, just off the manufacturing line and is bound to be shocking to deal with.

The front door to the shop is locked from the outside. Another burst of fire from Alsmiffy obliterates it, granting them access into the main corridor on the promenade featuring nothing but shops. 

Ignoring the urge to loot all the other places, the three sneak off. The alarms in the sector they’re leaving had practically emptied out the area in record time. Hyperion’s safety officers and security are probably have a field day right now, trying to locate them.

At Trottimus’ prompting, Ross heaves a weapons cabinet in front of the door before they exit, to prevent any followers investigating the lack of escape attempts.

Now alone at last, the three change into their proper clothes in a bathroom. There’s no point to using new disguises, given that Hyperion’s bound to have some sort of alert out on the channels about three trigger-happy renegades running loose around Helios.

“I missed my mask,” Alsmiffy remarks. He tucks his tie in, straightening it and cracks his neck, all the while watching his reflection in the mirror.

“Stop admiring yourself, the mirror’ll crack,” Ross cheerfully points out, emerging from a stall. Alsmiffy aims a swat at him that Ross smartly dodges. Trottimus is examining the map of Helios pasted on the bathroom wall.

“We can make it to the shuttle bay if we cut across the promenade and go through access tunnel sixty-” Trottimus shuts up upon seeing the number, burying his face in his palm to stifle a giggle.

“What are you giggling about over here?” Peering over Trottimus’ shoulder, Ross spies the number and begins to crack up. Wanting to see what all the commotion is, Alsmiffy elbows Ross out of the way to personally scrutinise the map.

“I don’t get it,” He flatly says, giving what feels to the other two, an accusing glare. 

“It’s sixty-” Ross starts to explain with tears in his eyes. A pointy elbow to his other side shuts him up. Trottimus levels a ‘don’t you explain the joke’ look at him that Ross immediately deciphers and ceases his chuckling.

“What?” Alsmiffy insists, curiosity piqued like a dog smelling a treat that’s been hidden, and who expects their owner to fetch it for them.

“We’ll explain later,” Trottimus evasively says. Looking Trottimus in the eye, Alsmiffy proceeds to mime punching his face in with both gloved hands. The fact that if trapped in a paper bag, Alsmiffy would rather turn it into charcoal rather than fight his way out is not lost on Trottimus.

Resisting the temptation to roll his eyes at how childish Alsmiffy is acting (and growing more than horrified at himself for how easily they’re navigating around all the gaping holes in their relationship), Trottimus walks out of the bathroom and right into a Loader bot. 

Expecting a blow, Trottimus brings up his hands to summon his surveyors. Alsmiffy and Ross appear on either side of him, guns at the ready.

The Loader simply gushes static from its hidden speaker. A familiar blond head of hair bobs forward, never taking annoyed eyes off the pad being held up. “Sorry! I’m in the middle of debugging Larry Robert, so don’t mind-” 

“Which way to the shuttle bay?” quickly inquires Trottimus, hastily signalling that the figure is no threat at all. Ross and Alsmiffy reluctantly lower their guns, trusting him. “Please?”

“That way,” The figure automatically points, hardly listening to three sets of footsteps darting off, plus ‘thanks’ being chorused at once by three different voices. “It’s awfully quiet around here, and you’d think people would be used to a fire drill practice on Helios now,” He absently says under his breath once he’s alone.

Larry Robert takes one step forward and promptly collapses into a twitching heap owing to their right side now being paralysed. 

“Maybe that wasn’t the right thing to do,” Lalna considers, scratching his head, not yet willing to admit he’s stumped by the problem posed by all his tampering with the bot’s innate programming.

\--

The security cameras following the trio’s progress have managed to cut them off fifty metres from the shuttle bay. Cursing, the three have resorted to taking cover in a break room, Ross and Alsmiffy taking turns to return fire on the security guards breaching the corridor in pairs.

Trottimus is running out of options; running amok through the rest of Helios is not one, what with the heightened security and Helios possessing eyes everywhere. Well, almost. Destroying cameras would just eat up their ammo and be an instant tip-off so the trio settle for ignoring them as much as possible.

He could propose leaping down a garbage chute, but everybody knows that on a Hyperion space station, at five ‘o'clock on the dot, all the collected garbage gets crushed into a pulp before being scraped into cubes that are then vented into a sun (or incinerator, if no sun conveniently exists nearby).

Going back out into the corridor to fight is out of the question when thirty people are firing down said corridor in intervals. Only the fire from Alsmiffy is holding those closest at bay. Judging by the increasing interludes between the walls, Alsmiffy’s supply of gas is dwindling. 

Earlier, the guards had tried bringing up fire extinguishers to deal with the flames, only to find out that almost every fire extinguisher in a five hundred metre radius had been helpfully ejected out of an airlock or punctured. While the trio hadn’t been able to wreck the cameras, they’d sought another way to hinder their enemies.

Ross and Alsmiffy have broken into the vending machines in the room open to help themselves to the goods, especially the ammo boxes. Trottimus picks up the spare digistruct modules, seeing as the opportunity is ripe to expand his inventory.

“So, got any smart ideas?” Alsmiffy asks for the fifth time.

“No!” Trottimus snaps. “Stop asking!”

“Well, keep thinking! You’re our only hope!” Ross says, lobbing his last grenade. Superheated metal glances off the corridor, exploding a chunk of ceiling that exposes wiring. It brings down a light to swing across the hall, sparking and crackling. Everybody in the hall retreats down one doorway. The three know that they’ll soon test their luck and advance again.

Consulting his pinched map of Helios brings up tiny text besides the corridor they’re trapped in. Trottimus glances down at the opposite end of the corridor. There’s rows upon rows of doors. Through the glass sit escape pods. The vending machine is still weakly spewing rations from a fist-sized hole, courtesy of Ross.

Trottimus draws an SMG and takes his place at the barricade (consisting of a reinforced refrigerator, plus designers tables and chairs). “Ross, go eat all those rations!”

“You want me to stuff my face.” Ross stares blankly at Trottimus, lowering his gun. “While we’re being shot at.” 

A grenade bounces off Ross’ head. Alsmiffy sends it back with a gust of hot air. Somebody panics and shrieks as the grenade goes off (likely by their lower extremities, judging from the resulting moaning of somebody newly deprived of legs). Still, Ross stares at Trottimus as his shield regenerates.

“There’s a time and place for pigging out and this is it!” Alsmiffy shakes one hand pumping nothing but air. An empty canister of gas is thrown into his inventory, replaced by another. “I’m down to two canisters, so whatever you’re doing, hurry up before they know I’m out of-”

“I know, you don’t need to say it!” Trottimus irritably says, proceeding to adopt a patient, albeit strained, tone of voice. “Look, I need you to transform, grab the table and toss it down the hall, then go and rip off the doors to the escape pods so we can exit Helios.” A pause. “In style.” At the incredulous look (well, air regarding Alsmiffy) from the two of them, Trottimus defensively adds, “It’s the best I could come up with on the spot!”

“I like  _ style, _ ” Alsmiffy agrees in a hushed voice, nodding at Ross to see if he has any issue with the impromptu plan.

Ross returns the nod, perking up. “And I like stuffing my face.” 

Gunfire bounces off his face and head, the spent rounds tinkling as they hit the floor. The vents on the table serving as their cover begins to develop a rash of bullet holes. Rising (and continuing to ignore all the gunfire targeting him), Ross lopes over to the busted vending machine, one outstretched hand widening the hole. Ration bars leap off their dispensers to join others on the floor.

“Too bad you can’t do both,” Alsmiffy notes, going back to trying to melt the corridor. He and Trottimus don’t look back over their shoulders at the sound of Ross going to town on the rations, the sound of mad chewing, chomping and voracious noises joining the general din. 

Ten minutes later, the cracking of bones replaces the loud munching, followed by silence. The resulting silence travels along the corridor, a striking change from gunfire, explosions and fire burning everything it can reach.

“Why’d they’d stop shooting?” mutters a guard, reloading and sticking their head out to squint down the smoke laden corridor.

“Maybe they rolled over and died?” says another guard, sounding hopeful about going home early now that all the fuss is settled.

“Guess who’s full of  _ shit _ right now?” An uncannily distorted voice rumbles. Guards glance at one another, not entirely sure what the new voice is.

“You didn’t see a fourth guy join them, did you?” One whispers to his friend while they’re both cowering behind the sparking light dangling from the ceiling by a twisted cable.

Just when they think that it’s too quiet, a table flies out of the room through the smoke and concusses one of the less fortunate guards.

Two dark shapes, one tall and thin, another short and pleasingly round, sprint down the hallway towards the escape pods. The last shape is enormous, extracting itself from the room with difficulty owing to the newly gained height. Once it’s bodily shoved the refrigerator into place, it drops on all fours to lope after the other two.

Oh yes,  _ fear  _ smelled wonderful. The smell of people wetting themselves in fear, slightly less so, especially if it’s grown men. 

Stretching out in this form always invited trouble. Ross would rather be at home, settled next to Trottimus (Alsmiffy too, but only if he swears to behave), gnawing a bone- correction, gnawing  _ rations _ . The last energy bar’s filled his mouth with the taste of rations he’d eaten seconds ago. Scrumptious, especially the chicken burrito flavored one.

He can smell a whole box of them emanating from Trottimus’ left trouser pocket, inviting a deep sniff and a knowing nudge to the back of the legs.

“I’ll give you the rations  _ later,  _ Ross, just get this door open,” Trottimus mutters, shoving Ross’ furry head away from his pants.

Ross huffs, returning to stand on two legs, clawed hands stretching out to feel out the edge of the door. A heave results in metal screaming, exposing the inside of one escape pod. Behind them, the sound of gunfire hitting the fridge rattles the silence. Ross tosses the torn off slab at the door. That addition to the obstacles buys them a few more minutes of relative peace.

Swinging his fanged face around, Ross glances at Alsmiffy and Trottimus, awaiting the two’s decisions. The escape pod’s only large enough for one person, and Trottimus had counted on there being more time for Ross to break down two more doors. There’s only room for one of them to escape. Any moment now, the Loaders and guards will be on them.

Alsmiffy breaks the stalemate by stepping back, determinedly shaking his head. “Trott, get in.”

That defies all expectations he had of Alsmiffy. “I-” Trottimus opens and shuts his mouth.

“Don’t argue! Just fucking get in!” Careful not to let the superheated vents on his palms touch Trottimus, Alsmiffy roughly shoves him towards the waiting escape pod. Trottimus flails, hitting Alsmiffy in the arm, breathing hard as he refuses to do so.

“I’m not going if you two aren’t coming with me!” Trottimus argues, glaring at him.

He is  _ not  _ going on his own if means having to leave these two behind and frankly, he’d rather be burned alive again than willingly end up on his own. Never in all of his life, has he encountered such stupid, loyal,  _ friends _ .

Alsmiffy is quiet for approximately three seconds before he explodes. “I’m not fucking around! If you think I’m staying here because I want to, I’m not! I’d rather be on that escape pod but if it means leaving you and Ross here-” He glances at Ross, perhaps hoping that Ross will agree that Trottimus needs to fucking get in and go. 

Out of the three, Trottimus has the best chance of surviving. Left behind, Alsmiffy and Ross will figure something out if they combine both their brains. Hopefully. The sheet of metal is groaning under the weight of Loaders attempting to shift it out of the way.

Appearing to sense that they’re getting nowhere, Ross simply solves the problem by bundling up Alsmiffy and Trottimus with both arms (carefully avoiding nicking the two on his claws), forcing his way into the escape pod. It also has the effect of silencing Alsmiffy’s outburst via shock.

“Ross, put us down, there’s not enough room for three-” Trottimus’ panicked sentence is lost because his face is being smushed up against the glass. 

There’s not even enough room to flail _.  _ Alsmiffy’s elbow is jutting into his ribs as Alsmiffy fails to climb over the chair, thanks to Ross blocking the way out. 

“Ross,  _ mate _ , what are you  _ doing _ ?” Alsmiffy screeches, not looking forward to being squashed further by a fully transformed werewolf and one Trottimus. 

The sound of bones splintering announces Ross’ transformation. A grimacing, humanised Ross squishes into the escape pod, grunting as he punches the button to close the escape pod. The chair wasn’t made for a burly figure like him so his arms are sticking out on either side on the armrests. He finds the seatbelt and buckles it into place.

Trottimus is forced to inhale, making himself thinner as Ross’ elbows narrowly avoid hitting him in the chest. One of Alsmiffy’s bony knees is pressed up against his right leg.

“How do I drive this thing?” Ross mumbles, absently prodding at the controls.

“Don’t move your arms,” Trottimus advises as best as he can when the side of his face is exchanging numbers with the glass. “Or you’ll hit me in the stomach. I might puke.”

“Ohh, is that a new fetish? Too bad, I’m not into pukeplay,” Ross turns his head, only to get smacked on the nose by Trottimus’ only free hand.

“That’s not what it’s called,” Alsmiffy points out, managing to extract an arm from behind him. “Hey, this might help!” He jabs at a button labeled ‘EJECT’ before Trottimus and Ross can stop him.

The escape pod detaches with the force of a minor explosion from Helios, spinning wildly through space. Elpis takes hold of the pod containing three screaming people, gently drawing it closer to its body with a motherly air.

Yes, come closer child, find comfort in knowing that you’re in excellent hands. 

Unless one (make that three but an exception will be made given how crammed together the trio are) is ploughing right into the ground with enough force to make a family of farmers shed a single, proud tear.

\--

Ross smells people. Fact: it’s true that people have a unique smell to them. Another fact: He’s lived with Alsmiffy and Trottimus for so long, he’s learned to habitually block out their scents, along with his own.

Have another fact: He can also do the same for other people, including strangers, unless he really wants to know if they’ve been eating garlic or whatever miscellaneous details he cares to find out by concentrating.

A new fact: There are people he’s never smelled before surrounding the mostly intact remains of the escape pod. 

The conclusion is that they’ve landed near civilisation. That’s promising. He preferred that over becoming lost in space or becoming a bunch of remains spread out over ground. 

Ross cracks open an eye. Minus the occasional inconvenience of having an itch to scratch at a full moon, being a werewolf has its perks. 

One of those is the obnoxiously fast regeneration. It that made recovering from accidents and injuries a walk in the park. That doesn’t cover being shot countless times since while he’s sturdy, sturdy is not the same as bulletproof, no matter how many times Alsmiffy tries to trick him into being a meat shield.

The guns pointing at the escape pod scratch out the option of attacking. For the moment, Ross is pretending to be dead. Or at very least, knocked out. This is achieved by letting his head loll to one side onto one sore shoulder, his mouth slightly open and body adopting the posture of a crash dummy post testing.

He can hear Trottimus making high, breathy sounds right behind him, followed by a drawn out groan from Alsmiffy. Ross is glad that they’re alive; he’d have immediately smelled if they hadn’t survived the landing.

“I can see why you never got your license,” Alsmiffy says, the usual bite to his words dampened by the pained note in his tone.

Trottimus agrees by groaning. Somebody (probably Alsmiffy) prods Ross in the back of the head. Ross almost gives the game away by turning his head and snapping at the offending finger. Just in time, Ross eases into a deeper slouch with only the emergency seatbelt keeping him upright in the chair. Now, if only the other two can catch on.

“Ross?” Alsmiffy sounds puzzled (maybe even just the tiniest bit afraid). “Hey, you’re not dead, are you? I’ll just take all your stuff, so…” Cloth rustles as Alsmiffy leans over the seat to prod him in the face this time.

“Ross?” Trottimus speaks and this time, he sounds terrified. He also leans over to prod at Ross. It makes something in Ross’ heart let out a guilty whimper at the deceit. 

He can feel Trottimus and Alsmiffy throwing horrified looks at each other; he doesn’t have to have his eyes open to know as much. Smelling fear from these two, coupled with the feeling that they’re about to do something foolish (like shoving him out of the chair) drives Ross to respond.

“We’re surrounded,” He says out of the corner of his mouth. That does not reassure the other two one bit.

Shrieking, Trottimus and Alsmiffy both recoil at the same time in shock, hitting their heads on the caved in ceiling of the escape pod. The pod leans dangerously to one side. Ross heaves a sigh that he keeps to himself, spotting a figure through the cracked, foggy glass of the pod’s doors.

A figure wearing a cowboy hat taps on the glass, the barrel of a Jakobs shotgun they’re holding pointed at the ground. Ross can tell because he doesn’t have his eyes completely closed, only just enough to hide his conscious state.

“You three sound pretty alive in there, so would you mind coming out?” A muffled, soft voice (with a few twangs in some of the words that defies Ross’ ability to place the accent) asks. “We don’t want to hurt you, mind, unless you come out with guns blazing.” There’s an expectant pause. “I’ll give you thirty seconds, just in case you need a bit of time to let that sink in since that landing of yours was pret-ty bad.”

Trottimus, Alsmiffy and Ross decide to swiftly confer by whispering.

“Who’s that?” Alsmiffy sneers, not taking his eyes off the figure drawing back from the glass to stand a few metres away. Indistinct shapes of two other people bob in the distance.

“That doesn’t sound like anybody we know,” Trottimus observes, shaking life into his arms and legs. Or as best as he can, in the tiny space he’s permitted.

“They don’t smell like anybody I know,” Ross helpfully adds, again, via the corner of his mouth.

“You can stop pretending to be dead,” Alsmiffy rudely points out. “They know we’re alive in here.”

“The chair is nice,” Ross counters in the way of a lie. “Let me rest a bit in it, okay? I’m knackered from transforming.” That part is not a lie. Transformations have always left him craving sustenance. It’s not a problem if he can’t get it immediately but it is going to be a minor inconvenience, because it means he can’t take advantage of his condition during a fight.

“I’ll be the judge of that!” Alsmiffy tries to extract himself, utilising an ingenious combination of wriggling, flailing and Trottimus helpfully shoving him away to succeed. Finding that Ross is still strapped in and unwilling to budge, plus nowhere to go, he simply throws himself down on Ross’ lap. “Ooohh,  _ cushy _ .” He proceeds to sarcastically drape himself all over Ross.

Glad for the extra room, Trottimus slides around, ending up behind the chair. He rests his head on top of Ross’ own to avoid concussing himself on the low ceiling. Ross finds that he doesn’t mind one bit, but it really is becoming uncomfortable from all the random limbs digging into his front, sides and back.

There’s not even room for him to shove Alsmiffy off. That doesn’t matter in the next second. The escape pod door’s blasted open. 

Ross grunts from an elbow sailing into his sternum and hands clutching at the back of his jacket. Already, Alsmiffy is screaming bloody murder, digistructing his gauntlets to point them at the person who’d shot the door open.

“Sorry about that, I just thought you three suffocated or something-” Blinking, their rescuer stops to take in the scene meeting them.

Alsmiffy hastily slides off Ross’ lap, scrambling out of the teetering escape pod with his hands still raised. Ross and Trottimus hastily follow. Now that they’re no longer in the escape pod, the three properly look at their ‘rescuer’.

The figure tilts back their cowboy hat with a gloved hand after reloading their shotgun, grinning sardonically.

Sharp blue eyes (one of them glowing brighter than the other and yet, how can a mere look be so cold) appraise them. A few scars curve across a regal face, permanently disturbing the curve of a cheek and the bridge of a nose. The imperious way she’s looking at them makes Ross want to growl at her, an instinct he hasn’t felt since childhood upon meeting the spitting tom cat next door.

“Where are we?” Trottimus politely inquires, gesturing to Alsmiffy to stand down. Alsmiffy pointedly ignores the gesture. 

“And who are you?” Ross stiffly adds, smelling two other figures standing behind them. At least Alsmiffy remains silent, falling back on habit to let Trottimus and Ross do the talking. He can see Alsmiffy mentally fighting the urge to take control of the situation, appreciating the effort he’s making.

“Name’s Minty, and you’re in my town, boys,” drawls Minty. Something in her steely tone silently warns them not to try anything because that would be incredibly stupid and unwise, especially if they wanted to remain in one piece. “Bluari, Berym!” She gestures with a hand to the trio. “Cuff these three and take them back to Concordia.” 

That hand is gloved in prime leather, supple and soft; it’s also hiding something, likely a prosthetic, Trottimus notes. Her long sleeve conceals the rest of it. The other (scarred) hand that’s bare is still curled around the shotgun she’s holding.

Before Alsmiffy, Ross and Trottimus can argue, the two figures (one in a customs officer’s uniform, the other in a nurse’s outfit) have stepped forward, pulling out handcuffs.

Alsmiffy raises his hands to show her that nobody, least of all, him, is going to be handcuffed like a  _ chump _ .

In the second he takes to do so, Minty draws a pistol to fire a warning shot just past his head- the bullet grazes a thin line past Alsmiffy’s mask, glancing off a rock and off into the night (or atmosphere, since they’re standing on a moon).

“You want to try that again?“ Minty lightly inquires, the pistol levelling on Alsmiffy’s head this time. The meriff badge pinned to her coat glints. Under his mask, Alsmiffy’s eyes dart to it, then towards the other two. He hadn't even seen her switch the shotgun out.

Knowing when he’s beat (and with the shaking of heads from his increasingly worried companions) Alsmiffy despawns his gloves. He submits to being handcuffed by the weedy looking customs officer. The officer tugs on the handcuffs, silently pointing at the walls of the city.

Alsmiffy derisively rattles the handcuffs, earning an alarmed step back. He grins under his mask. While rusty at bullying someone, it’s all coming back to him so easily _.  _

In response, the stern man in the nurse’s outfit none-too-gently jabs at Alsmiffy’s back with the butt of their rifle. The hint is taken. It’s either that or let himself get hit the in the back of the knees and suffer further humiliation. He’s not sure if he can cap the impulse to start a fight if that happens.

Kicking aside every pebble in his way, Alsmiffy trudges up the slope in the direction of the metal gate that leads into Concordia. Ross and Trottimus meekly follow once they’re handcuffed as well, not trusting these people, least of all, Minty.

They have no choice, so when in Concordia, do as Concordians do. It’s anybody’s guess as to how long Alsmiffy is willing to tolerate that before snapping, even when both of his friends are being held at gunpoint.


	2. moonwalker.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a pyromaniac, a werewolf and a technician find that the welcome committee on concordia is less than thrilled to encounter them. fortunately, the sheriff of concordia has need of their services. provided that the three work for free, that is.
> 
> after a variety of harrowing shenanigans (involving a few hours in the naughty corner, ross’ sexy voice, defensive cannons, murderous torks, and of course, almost dying several times), the three finally make their way down to pandora. there, the three proceed to raise all manner of hell in the only way that they know best: by being assholes aspiring to get rich quick.
> 
> what they don’t know is that pandora is home to even bigger assholes. the journey is still magical after all this time, though. sadly, no unicorn, puppies or rainbows are in sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BANG. KAPOW. LOTS OF ACTION. that’s about it. there also is terrible flirting, and feels happening in this chapter. plus one scene involving cannibalism (that is unrelated to any flirting or feels whatsoever).

Concordia is a slum of a city situated atop a stone grey plateau. The slope is lined with an assortment of rocks that form a convenient path leading up to the city’s gate. Posted along the gates are watchtowers. Several towers are studded with slim generators supplying the oxygen-rich atmosphere. It allows all those who pass into the bubble to freely breathe. White-blue lines (faint and wavering, like a flickering, mocking mirage on the horizon) link the bubble to the shimmering dome encasing the settlement.

Trottimus finds it deeply ironic that he and the other two narrowly escaped execution at the hands of Hyperion, only to end up nearly suffocating to death on Elpis’ surface. The escape pod hadn’t been equipped with Oz kits. Trottimus finds that the lack of Oz kits is a major design flaw as he reflects. He and the others assumed that they wouldn’t have hung around in space to carry Oz Kits with them.

Right now, he’s currently being frog-marched towards Elpis’ only civilisation. His whole body cringes with the effort of walking. Being thrown into one life-threatening situation after another doesn’t exactly provide any other natural benefits aside from constant exercise and shaving years off his life.

In front of him are Ross and Alsmiffy. The two’s hands are no longer raised to surrender. 

Ross is doing his best to appear as non-threatening as possible, meekly submitting to the rough treatment. Trottimus can tell because Ross’ grin is a fraction wider than it usually is, exposing a set of pearly white canines that are typically tucked away. The look just makes Ross look like he’s got a buildup of gas.

What about Alsmiffy? Alsmiffy is the opposite of perturbed, minus the way his shoulders are set, the fingers of both hands digging into his palms. Anybody could break a concrete block in half on those shoulders.

Chances are that the latter is seething over how he’d been bested by the sheriff of Concordia: Minty (MintyMinute, if he wanted to be technical). It’s not a name that Trottimus ever expected to match to someone in charge of a place orbiting Pandora. It’s a miracle how a sheriff is surviving here. Law in space is different to that of those on planets (or not).

Most sheriffs preferred to shoot first and ask questions later. Looting dead people is more profitable. It’s uncommon for a sheriff to so much as glance at the rule book. It’s rarer for them to adhere to the simple guidelines outlined within it. 

Still, Trottimus appreciates the basic mercy Minty’s demonstrated so far, even if it makes him and his companions look like pushovers.

Wah, cry some fucking more.

Like she knows that her mercy isn’t to be taken for granted, she also demonstrated why people shouldn’t exactly fuck with her. Only when she, her two cronies (Berym and Bluari) and her three captives are a stone’s throw away from the gate, does Minty speak up again.

“You three wouldn’t mind being patted down, would you?” Nothing in her matter-of-fact request allows room for a outright refusal; it’s her way or be shoved out of the bubble and die a horrible death. And Trottimus fancies living over asphyxiation for being a prideful moron.

Trottimus sideeyes Ross and Alsmiffy, the latter two watching him for his reaction. Trottimus nods, stepping forward to save her the trouble of asking who’s going first. 

Bluari inches over, eyeing him warily. The urge to pull a face to see if Bluari will jump is difficult to resist. They’re holding a metal detector, a metal rod with the appearance of a stun baton dressed in a excessive coat of shiny, multi-colored buttons. 

With a look of concerned consternation, Bluari sweeps the end that hums over him. It goes haywire when it passes over Trottimus’ digistruct modules. The sound it’s making is like a compressed foghorn high on far too much helium gas.

Judging by Bluari’s scrunch of a frown, this is not an encouraging sign. Their eyes meet Trottimus’ poker face. “Sorry, but you’re going to have to hand those over.” Somehow, Bluari makes the insidious demand come across as apologetic.

The speed at which Trottimus refuses would have earned him a smack from any other officer. “No!” The modules contain his surveyors, guns and everything else that Trottimus considers as invaluable to his modus operandi. The handcuffs aren’t a problem; that one demand is.

The speed at which Minty homes in on a potential scene only adds to her growing credibility. “You’ll get them back,” She evenly says, spinning the pistol in her hand with a deftness that only seasoned gunslingers could pull off without shooting their own foot or face (or anybody else’s) off.

It annoys Trottimus that she’s not even looking at him when she’s saying that, focusing on Ross and Alsmiffy. A wise move, seeing as the two are bristling; the two know how much Trottimus’ modules mean to him. 

Without the modules in reach, Trottimus might as well be as useful as a paper towel in a thunderstorm. Well, he’s just being modest. There are other ways to fight back. He just prefers violent electrocution as his default method.

“How do I know you’ll give them back?” Trottimus almost spits his words, tamping down on his anger so that it doesn’t drive him to say something he ends up regretting later.

Minty could very well hand over the contents of his modules to Hyperion. As far as Trottimus knows, Hyperion would pay a pretty penny (to use an antiquated term for currency) for the surveyors, whether to be copied or destroyed. No other surveyors of their kind existed.

“I swear it on my badge,” Minty says after a slight pause that lets the three know that she’s been contemplating their reactions. It’s almost like she’s enjoying keeping them on a leash to pull at her leisure. Good boy, would you like a bone for cooperating?

Evidently, sticking to her word seems best for whatever conclusion she’s reached. Trottimus’ mouth quirks into a solid line, attempting to figure out if there’s any underlying motive for her rigid laidbackness. 

They’re not being arrested, but they are being taken into custody. Further questions are not what Trottimus needs right now. 

Bluari’s finally made the metal detector shut up, fidgeting on the spot. Their anxious, imploring look is spotted by Minty. She nods, pushing her hat up with her pistol to indicate consequences.

“Catch,” Trottimus concedes. He knows when he’s beaten, reaching down to tug the modules free of his belt.

Bluari catches the modules that are lobbed over after a jangle of metal, nearly fumbling the modules out of their hands. Hoping that he hasn’t just made a fatal error in judgement, Trottimus waits for Alsmiffy and Ross to follow his lead. The two cooperate without a fuss. Relieved at no drama, Bluari stashes away both the metal detector and the collection of modules.

The gate drops once Bluari ECHOs it to let them, Minty and Berym (who’d watched the whole time with a bored air, their ginger bearded face impassive) back in. The gates part without a fuss. To Trottimus, that’s a sign that someone is taking care of the city’s architecture. It implies a well-oiled town. A town could be a reflection of its caretaker.

Passing through the gates grants Trottimus, Ross and Alsmiffy their first look at what constitutes as ‘civilisation’ on Elpis. What they hadn’t been able to see from outside was that someone had taken a bunch of buildings and stacked them around a column drilled right into the ground. Perhaps ‘drill’ isn’t quite the correct word here.

Rather, someone had  _ excavated _ a bunch of perfect rectangles out of the ground, then filled the edges with every possible form of human abode that they could think of (barring treehouses). When the space in the shaft had been filled to maximum capacity, the only direction left had been ‘up’. When ‘up’ had eventually failed, seeing as the protective dome could only stretch so far? The leftovers spread outwards like mould taking root on a piece of stale bread.

The buildings everywhere possess blue-grey metal riveted to their exteriors. The style reminiscent of Dahl’s utilitarian trademark architecture. So, Dahl’s been here before. That’s not surprising, seeing as Dahl ranked as one of the galaxy’s top corporations in regards to claiming territory, new or owned. 

The air smells of stale, recycled oxygen. It’s saturated with the blunt subtlety of having been inhaled and exhaled by far too many lungs. It’s one of those things Trottimus tries not to think too much about, whenever he and the others pass through a space station.

What’s surprising is that Hyperion hadn’t seen fit to wipe Concordia off Elpis the second the opportunity arose. Most (alright, _all_ ) corporations obliterated their defeated competition, even the traces of their presence, like a bully getting their hands on someone’s treasured toy and rebuilding it, complete with their own personal twisted touch.

If Concordia is the toy, Minty is the kid who’d kick the bully on the shins before demanding compensation after for making her go to all that trouble. If it’s someone else’s toy, she’d probably return it simply because that’s what she’d do. It only makes sense that she’d ask for a reward while she can.

That’s the kind of person Trottimus is dealing with here. Far to the right is a balcony with a decapitated, chipped statue of a portly, suited man posing regally. Someone had drawn a bad outline of a dick on the waistcoat in marker. Trottimus takes a moment to appreciate the gesture of lawlessness happening underneath Minty’s nose.

Aside from the vandalised statue, wherever Trottimus looks, people have gathered in loose groups of threes and fours to huddle. 

Everyone has a haggard, run-down look to them, cheekbones beginning to protrude. It bothers him that even Minty shares her citizenry’s appearance, her blonde hair hanging lank in spite of taking care of her appearance. The badge on her chest has a polished gleam to it, as with her own clothing. In spite of that, she holds her head up high.

He catches her eye. Her gaze dares him to comment on it and Concordia. No thanks, he’s capable of keeping his mouth shut.

A few citizens rummage through trash cans, shaking fingers pawing through garbage. Pity is the only handout Trottimus can give to these people. As he passes, the eye-watering, sour whiff of people who haven’t washed in days causes his stomach to curdle. What he wouldn’t give for an Oz Kit right now or a medical mask.

Blank gazes remain on the flooring or the walls of Concordia; hardly anyone lifts their head. When they do, their gazes flick up, then back down as though they feared that Pandora would come crashing down on their heads if they stared for too long.

Far above (or below, space tended to fuck with one’s sense of directionality), Pandora continues its sleepy orbit. Dregs of clouds swirl across its muddy brown surface, implying a vast portion of desert yet to be terraformed. Smudged patches of color hint at civilisation or lack thereof, or landscapes not composed of sand and dirt. A giant, sea-green ocean fills in the rest of the planet’s surface. Someday, it’ll eventually devour the land and those living on it.

A spectacle that he’s never seen before tugs his roaming gaze over. Trottimus can’t help an impressed exhale at the immense purple scar bleeding out along one of the planet’s lower halves. It’s like the planet is injured. Whatever is bleeding out of atmosphere, Trottimus would to know. 

No other planet is scarred in that manner. It’s the most interesting sight from Elpis yet. All the known images of Pandora didn’t have  _ that  _ to show off.

Before Trottimus can keep admiring the sight, Berym nudges him with the barrel of the gun, bringing him back to Concordia.

“No need to be pushy,” Trottimus mutters, remembering to move his feet. Alsmiffy and Ross break out of their own trances to hastily follow before they can also be nudged. All around them, people pause in their loitering to gawk, drawn by the presence of Minty.

Alsmiffy flips them the bird before Berym also administers a reminder to keep moving.

Bluari and Berym herd Trottimus, Ross and Alsmiffy into a dinghy building and up a flight of stairs. The stairs are grubbier than the three’s first shared apartment. Someone (probably Bluari) had tried to sweep out the blighted dust. Light scuff marks from a broom mark each stair. 

In the customs office, two dismal, empty holding cells await the trio. One smells of cleaning fluid, almost nauseatingly so. It also couldn’t quite cover the aroma of urine wafting from the lidless toilets. Both cells are the size of Ross’ initial bedroom. Without turning around to check, the three know to shuffle in.

Alsmiffy and Ross enter one cell, leaving Trottimus on his own in the other. A bit of bumping and careful manoeuvring allow Alsmiffy and Ross to glare daggers once the two face Bluari. 

Trottimus settles for a look that says ‘I hate you so much but not to point of asking Alsmiffy to set you on fire but maybe you could do with having a leg broken with a hammer, you know, for good luck’.

Bluari bites their lip as forcefields spring up to separate them and the trio. Berym nods at Minty. Their job done, they promptly exit, leaving Minty and Bluari to deal with the prisoners.

“What to do with you three?” Minty pockets the pistol, coolly eyeing the three through the crackling wall of pain preventing Ross from ripping her throat out. Ross’ grin sharpens to a look of ‘I can’t wait to get out of here and punch you until facial recognition fails’.

Trottimus resists sticking his tongue out at her because it’s childish. Maybe later, once he’s stolen the badge off her. He returns her gaze, taking care to seem unfazed. Not easy, seeing as he spots Bluari depositing the modules into a grubby, plastic tray used for collecting confiscated items. He wishes he could shout ‘oi, have a little more respect for my stuff!’.

“How about letting us go?” He tries at a half-hearted stab at sarcasm. The atmosphere is about as a depressing as a gathering of circus clowns invited to a funeral. It’s not giving him much to work with.

“Naw, I think you’re much more...useful here,” Minty says, chewing on her words as she would a stalk of grass. “You can stay here for the time being. If you behave, maybe I’ll come back sooner.” With that, Minty tips her hat at Bluari. Giving the trio one last thoughtful look, she strides off. Her boot spurs clink on the stairs.

Trottimus can hear Ross blowing a loud raspberry at her back. Alsmiffy is possibly giving the one-fingered salute in response. 

Bluari retreats behind a desk, ducking to hide behind the curved metal. All that can be seen of their head is a dark tuft sticking up over the top. The forcefield hums, buzzing occasionally. It’s a clear reminder that it’s pointless to try anything. 

All the tools Trottimus needs to pry the panel off the wall and break into the control panel are in his digistruct modules. Problem: the modules are on the other side of the room.

Well, they hadn’t taken away Trottimus’ ECHO device or found the spare digistruct module that’s disgusted as a cuff link. Trottimus rotates so that his back is to Bluari. Waiting until Bluari seems occupied, he slips the device out of his pocket. His lab coat hides what he’s doing. With any luck, the other two won’t have been stupid enough to put their own ECHO devices into the modules containing their weapons.

But first, it’s time to check up on the BnB chat. Alsmiffy and Ross can keep stewing for a couple of minutes while he tries to spin an entertaining story out of this. Grinning, Trottimus types.

In the other cell, Alsmiffy and Ross are attempting to claim as much space as possible for themselves. It’s hard, because the whole cell had been made for one person, not two people squashed in together. At least the escape pod had elbow room.

Alsmiffy roughly pushes back with an elbow to Ross’ side. The height advantage fails, given that he’s squashed along the wall by Ross’ bulk. Ross is winning. If Alsmiffy still had his gloves, the fight would have been won by now. However, Ross doesn’t need weapons for what’s happening. Just a hand works.

One hand is pinning Alsmiffy’s head to the wall. Ross could crack his head open on the metal like an egg. He won’t, because Ross needs Alsmiffy. Or so Alsmiffy assumes. But what if Trottimus and Ross don’t need him anymore? Especially since he’s never been nothing but trouble to begin with. Doubt that’d been shut up for too long begins to knock against the wall keeping him ignorant of his own flaws.

For as long as Alsmiffy’s known, he’s always considered himself as one of Hat Corp.’s best assets. He’s got the looks, could walk the walk, and talk the talk where and when it truly mattered. Or so he’d thought. Doubt weakens the wall, exposing the hairline cracks he’d been trying to cover up in the past few months of constant planet and ship hopping.

Nothing he’ll ever do (short of dying) will ever redeem him in the other two’s eyes. Alsmiffy wants and doesn’t want what he previously had with the other two.

Certainly, he’s not exactly proud of the way he behaved in the past but all his apologies have been ‘get off the hook’ cards flashed too many times, wearing them down to mere words with no oomph, emptied of all meaning.

He can never apologise for what he did.

Momentarily stunned by the sheer intrusiveness of the truth in its rawest form, Alsmiffy goes slack against the cell’s wall, accidentally conceding the space to Ross.

Ross lets out a triumphant sound that would have been a ‘HA’ if the two of them had allowed any sort of noise between them. The entire scuffle over territory had taken place in complete silence.

For losing, Alsmiffy’s foot ends up in the toilet. His shield prevents his foot (and by extension, his sock and the leg of his pants) from soaking up the foul goopy mixture that’s been left sitting in the bowl. Liquified moss (or what looks like moss) demurely laps at his ankle.

Seeing no resistance from Alsmiffy, Ross dares to take his hand away. The scuffle had ended without injury, as rare as a shell curling to the left rather than the right. Celebrating seems wrong, given where the three of them currently are.

Ross peers at Alsmiffy. Alsmiffy is leaning against the wall or as best as he can with one foot planted in the toilet. Ross contemplates leaning over to flush the toilet (which wouldn’t do anything aside from having an excellent chance at infuriating the ever-loving piss out of Alsmiffy).

Things have been rocky enough between the two of them, let alone adding Trottimus to the equation. It’s true that Ross gets along with Alsmiffy (like a house on fire and other times, like a house patiently waiting for a hurricane to blow over). It’s also true that Ross is also still mad (‘mad’ being an understatement of the highest magnitude) at Alsmiffy for almost burning Trottimus alive.

Remaining silent, Ross returns the space he’d taken from Alsmiffy. A half step to the left achieves that goal. Being twice as wide as Alsmiffy presents advantages and disadvantages. Freeing up room with his frame in a cramped space is a definite disadvantage.

Living up to his powers of observation, Alsmiffy raises his head to peer at Ross. The glance is suspicious, judging by how guarded Alsmiffy’s frame becomes. Hands rise to shove back. Alsmiffy regards him warily when no further shoving happens.

Ross focuses on the forcefield, noting every bit of electricity that plays out over its surface, like a glass dome filled with lightning that followed a fingertip tracing across its surface to zap it. Touching the forcefield would probably result in a foul curse involving somebody’s mother plus one scorched finger.

The mournful notes of a harmonica drift through the air.

“Trott, stop playing the harmonica, it’s cliche,” Ross instantly voices. At the sound of his voice, Alsmiffy focuses on the forcefield. Already, he’s withdrawn from the conversation. He’ll come back in when he feels like it.

“It’s not me!” Trottimus indignantly responds from the other cell. His words sound muffled from the forcefield. “Does it sound like it’s coming from me?” The jab irks Ross. “Maybe  _ you _ should stop playing the harmonica!”

“It’s not me!” Ross heatedly snaps back. His teeth snap from the ferocity of his retort, making his canines ache for a long second.

“Who’s playing it then?” Trottimus sounds like he’s looking around the customs office.

Ross also gazes around the grimy customs office for the source of the grating tune. A bunch of empty lockers, a desk, gimmicky travel posters decaying on the wall and paper filled trays meet his vision.

Bluari sticks their head up over the top of the desk. “Sorry, I just wanted to set the mood,” is the sheepish explanation they give. A battered harmonica is held up in one hand. If the forcefield hadn’t been in the way, Ross would have snatched it up and thrown it out of the window to make it float off into space. “Prisoners always do that in the movies, so I thought I’d help out and I’ve always wanted to do it for real after all the times I’ve practiced-”

“It’s not helping!” Trottimus shouts.

“Yeah, it’s fucking awful!” Ross sneers. “It sounds like you’re trying to blow your nose through a clarinet!”

“I’ve heard better music on Dionysus, and they were from bagpipes!”

Ross waits for Alsmiffy to join in on the jeering. Alsmiffy’s head almost rises. It falls when Alsmiffy retreats back into whatever space he’s gone off into. Ross presses on, hoping that Bluari won’t have noticed the gap.

“Okay, I’ll stop,” Bluari says, sounding dejected. They sink behind the desk as a doomed sinking ship would. Nothing can be seen of their head.

Ross feels like he’s accidentally trodden on a puppy’s paw when all the puppy had wanted was to play. He can feel Trottimus staring through the wall at him and Alsmiffy. They’ve gone too far. The thought of Minty will do to them when she returns drives their collective consciences into action like rising water at their feet.

“On second thought, you can keep playing!” Trottimus calls out to Bluari, all false cheer and smiles.

“No, you didn’t  _ like _ it,” Bluari says, their voice warping the last word with suppressed emotion.

“We were just…joking,” Ross tries, aware that it sounds transparent. His conscience supplies, ‘being dicks, more like’. Ross tries to pretend it hadn’t said that.

“I’m not playing it ever again.” A ding echoes through the customs office like Bluari had lobbed an item into the bin.

“I liked it,” Alsmiffy pipes up, his voice carrying over to Bluari. “Haven’t heard a harmonica riff like that in years.”

Bluari’s head emerges from behind the desk. Watery eyes blink at Alsmiffy through the forcefield. “Wait.” A sniff. ”You really did?” Bluari had been reduced to tears. A mental image of Minty tying them to the stake and preparing to lob a torch at their feet flashes through Ross’ mind. 

Whatever Alsmiffy’s doing, it’s working. Ross eases his expression into one of encouragement, trying not to grin and give away the con. 

“Yeah,” Alsmiffy affirms with a slow nod. “You didn't hear me fucking complaining back there.” He would have elbowed Ross to prove a point. Alsmiffy keeps his gaze trained on Bluari. It’s impossible to interpret his gaze. Trottimus is silent in his own cell.

“Are you sure you want me to play?” Bluari edges out from behind the desk, squinting at Alsmiffy. A harmonica (sporting a brand new dent) is cradled in one hand. “I’ve only been practicing for a year, so…” They uncertainly say, shifting on the spot. An accusing glance passes over Trottimus and Ross.

“ _ Yes _ ,” Alsmiffy presses with a familiar impatience that causes Ross to long for the good old days.

“Hold on, let me sit.” Bluari leans against the desk, bringing the harmonica up to their mouth. Ross bites back the urge to point out that Bluari isn’t sitting.

After a few seconds of nervous adjusting (and almost losing the harmonica to the floor), a thin, clear, high note like a bird’s cry takes flight. It spears Ross’ heart, not from the pitch or how pure it is, but in how it  _ exists _ . How could something so perfect come from some scrappy bits of hole-ridden metal crappily bolted together?

The second note is followed by a third, fourth and fifth until Ross can no longer tell where each note begins, forming a melancholic song that needed no words. Rather, no words could ever capture what’s contained in the notes. The song falls, rising and cresting as Bluari manipulates the harmonica in their hands with a hypnotic deftness that lured the three’s gazes in.

Eventually, Bluari signs off the song, gasping for air. Before Ross can help it, he’s clapping, Trottimus and Alsmiffy joining in. Bluari pulls off a deep bow, their cheeks flushed but eyes bright. Ross’ keen ears pick up on a fourth person clapping. He stops, abruptly.

“I hope you three weren’t too bored by Bluari’s harmonica,” drawls a familiar voice. Ross’ head snaps to the doorway, focusing on Minty. She’s standing there, hands (one metal and one flesh) still applauding Bluari.

Bluari grins, pocketing the harmonica with utmost care. “They were a great audience,” They say, nodding appreciatively at Alsmiffy. Out of the corner of his Ross’ eyes, Alsmiffy’s hands have frozen mid-clap, his palms inches apart. Fingers angrily crook, one joint at a time.

“Did I keep you waiting long?” Minty’s businesslike stride takes her to the front of the two cells, in view of the three. Ross doesn’t bother to hide the loathing in his own gaze, directing it like a knife to her jugular. “Good to see you’re paying attention,” She wryly notes. Bluari returns to their desk, humming happily under their breath.

“What do you want?” Trottimus’ tone is light, free of all hostility. It seems like she hasn’t forgotten about her ‘guests’, after all.

“I want to make a deal,” Minty says, looking him up and down. The way she’s looking at them seems almost appraising, like she’s checking a shipment to be sure that it’s free of pests or anything nasty (like stowaways).

“A deal?” Ross is lying if he denies his interest being piqued by her return. By his side, Alsmiffy has his arms drawn up to his chest, his gaze level with her.

“No sheriff would ever deal with wanted men,” Trottimus laughs.

“No sheriff who wants to pass up an opportunity to make use of wanted men, that is,” Minty corrects him.

“What is it?” Ross’ curiosity has him ask. It’s not often that the three of them run jobs for anybody who’s even remotely law-abiding. Minty’s head turns to look at him. Ross refrains from growling at her, opting for a raise of his eyebrows.

“Run a few errands for the people of Concordia and maybe I’ll overlook your blatant trespassing and bounties.” It sounds like she’s been thinking of this for a while.

“We weren’t trespassing!” Alsmiffy finally objects, stepping forwards out of the toilet. He almost collides with the forcefield, coming close to subjecting himself to a world of pain. He jabs a finger in her direction. “We landed outside of the city, not in it!”

“That’s not what I’m reporting, if I ever do, to Hyperion.” Minty pulls out a cigarette from her pocket. It rests between her fingers for the time being. “I doubt Hyperion wants to believe you three when it comes to the trials.” A sly smile graces her lips.

“You’re blackmailing us,” points out Trottimus. If he sounds indignant, it’s because he is; who does Minty think she is, playing at  _ blackmail _ ? That’s their game to play, not hers.

“The people will pay you for your help,” Minty crisply informs. “However tempting it is to make you three work to the bone, given your rap sheets.”

“If we get a job we don’t like, we’re not taking it,” Trottimus haggles. If she’s seen their rap sheets, then she knows what they’re capable of. Better to negotiate around any loopholes now than find out that they’re bound to her by agreeing on the spot.

Unfortunately, she’s playing the same game as he is, perhaps just as long. “You think you can negotiate, in your position?” Minty leans forward to briefly press the cigarette to the forcefield. 

They both know that someone has to win or this isn’t going anywhere. Trottimus firmly responds with, “Or we stay in here.”

The cigarette emits a crackling sizzle like an insect flying into a bug light. Minty brings the lit cigarette to her lips, letting it hang there. Her cold, cold eyes are amused. “Alright, but you don’t get to refuse any jobs from  _ me _ .” Her eyes ask ‘anything else?’.

“Fine,” Trottimus accepts. No other leeway is possible. He anticipates Ross making a crass remark. When Ross doesn’t, Trottimus appreciates his restraint in not digging them a bigger grave.

The cloud of white smoke that Minty breathes whirls about in front of the forcefield. Otherwise, it’d have gone into Trottimus’ face.

Bluari’s apologetic voice pipes up to chastise her. “Minty, no smoking in here.”

“I’ll be gone in a tic,” Minty says. She smiles. It puts Trottimus on edge, reminding Trottimus of a maze full of unexpected twists, turns and traps waiting to be sprung. “Report to the medical bay for a check-up in ten,” She says, drawing back to speak over her shoulder. “Your first job’s waiting there.”

“Why?” Ross blurts. “We don’t need medical attention!” That’s a bluff. Trottimus would like to see a professional for his bruises.

“It’d be pointless to send injured people out on jobs, especially after all the trouble I went to bring you three here,” is the practical answer the trio receives. 

For that, Ross snorts, spitting into the toilet. Alsmiffy automatically edges away from the trajectory. Trottimus puts away his ECHO device to await Bluari letting them out.

\--

Without a hitch, Bluari removes the handcuffs, returning Trottimus, Alsmiffy and Ross the freedom of their hands again. As tempting (and pointless) as it is to beat Bluari up for confiscating their weapons and modules, it wouldn’t go down well.

The medical bay is situated beside the customs office, a floor down. Trottimus is rubbing his wrists where the skin’s reddened. The handcuffs hadn’t been that constricting but it’d been uncomfortable to have them rubbing against his wrists every time he moved. 

Not bothering to see if the other two are keeping up, Trottimus breezes into the medical bay. The plan is to get in, get out, get his surveyors back and then do whatever it is Minty wants if the three of them aim to leave Elpis as soon as possible. Nothing beneficial will come of hanging around here.

A red-haired figure in a loose doctor’s outfit is preparing a steriliser, fiddling with a control panel. A clean smell, one that Trottimus associates with hospitals or the inside of a janitor’s outfit after five hours of hell, permeates the room to all its cluttered corners.

The steriliser is a ceiling high, transparent mint-colored tube rigged all over with sensors and gizmos to rid people of potential contaminants. Not that it mattered much on a backwater planet where people preferred sneaking past customs but it’s about high time the trio followed the rules (for once).

Spotting them, Berym is on his way to intercept the trio. The gun they’d been toting before is nowhere in sight (perhaps inappropriate to brandish in the medical bay).

“So you took up Minty’s offer. That’s bloody smart of you three.” Their voice is deep, the words rolling off their tongue with an accent that Trottimus can barely decipher. Bluari had less of the accent. At least Bluari had been understandable.

“What’d have happened if we hadn’t?” Alsmiffy retorts with clear spite, remembering the jab in the back.

“You don’t want to know,” is Berym’s cryptic response. They turn to the other figure in the room, hollering, “Doctor Hollie! We got three that need cleaning.” A pointed look is thrown at Ross. Ross is too busy examining the poster on the wall recommending a tour of Pandora to notice the discrimination.

“The steriliser’s already fired up!” Hollie lifts her head to take in the three. Her eyes widen. “Oooh, you must be the ones Minty warned me about!” Her tone betrays barely suppressed excitement. “Who wants to go first?” Rubber gloves are snapped on. At the terrified look on Trottimus’ face, Hollie adds with a laugh meant to be reassuring, “Don’t worry, the gloves are just a precaution. They aren’t going anywhere.”

Berym snorts at the lack of reaction from Trottimus, Ross and Alsmiffy. “Can you handle these three?” They ask. “Pyrion’s insulin patch needs some adjustment, so I’ll be back in ten.”

“You worry too much, I’ll be  _ fine _ . Besides, these three seem fairly cooperative” Hollie says. “Now shoo, I have patients.” An emphasising wave of her hands dismisses Berym.

“Shout if you need me,” Berym says, still sounding protective. They grab a medkit off the counter, sidling past Ross and Alsmiffy. One last look of warning is thrown over a heavyset shoulder before they’re gone. The door swings shut on its oiled hinges.

Left alone with Hollie, the trio glance back at her. Her eager grin promises lasting torture or a painless examination that’s over before they knew it. Trottimus and Alsmiffy step back, leaving Ross alone to face the threat.

“What, why am I am going first?” He objects, glancing both ways at how the other two have ditched him.

“You’re the one who gets banged up the most,” Trottimus says like it explains everything. His innocent grin gives the real meaning away.

Ross barely has time to let his dismay show on his face before Hollie is pushing him towards the steriliser. For someone who’s about Trottimus’ height, she’s managing to get Ross to move.

“That’s it, just hop into the steriliser!” Hollie grunts. Ross is forced onto the steps, ending up standing inside. His elbows barely brush against the tempered glass. “Ah, don’t worry, you don’t need to strip,” She breathlessly adds, tapping at the control panel. “Just stand still and let the steriliser do all the work!”

“I don’t like this,” Ross whines, watching Alsmiffy and Trottimus with a pleading look. Trottimus gestures ‘I’ll pray’. Ross refrains from making a rude gesture at him.

The door clicks as it smoothly rolls into place. The inside of the chamber smells of steam and a bundle of chemicals that make Ross’ nose want to scream and curl up into the foetal position.

The mechanisms on either side of him prevent him from tapping on the glass to get his friends’ attention. Hollie’s look of concentration gives way to another grin. 

“Here we go, just remember to stand still!” She has to shout for Ross to hear her.

“I change my mind-” Ross starts, only for the sudden whirring to drown him out. The rollers rise by his ankles, washing them in a blue light that burns his retinas. He squeezes his eyes shut, gasping as the light reaches his knees, blessing them with heat that only a warm bath could grant.

He could stay in here forever and let his worries melt away like snowflakes on glass.

When the heat stops over the top of his head, Ross can only convey his disappointment with a single look. Once the rollers go silent, the door slides open. A soft ‘ding’ announces the cycle’s completion. Ross stumbles out, loose-limbed and dizzy from the steriliser. His mind is a blank bliss of heaven.

“Your turn,” He mumbles to Alsmiffy and Trottimus.

Hollie yanks a chair over, sweeping all the empty medkits off it onto the floor. She kicks them underneath a bench. “Here, this might help! People get a bit overwhelmed...”

Mind blessed out Ross sinks into the chair and misses the rest of her sentence, mumbling gratefully, “Thank you.” 

Alsmiffy and Trottimus have a brief slap fight over who gets to enter the steriliser next, much to Hollie’s delight (or dismay; her expression’s hard to read). 

For a doctor who probably had to deal with people whose only reaction to getting hurt is to spit in the wound and dress it with an oily rag, her enthusiasm is backed by a practical efficiency to see the job done well and right. That includes having to break up Alsmiffy and Trottimus by using ‘let’s go in alphabetical order’ as an argument.

Alsmiffy and Trottimus also sink into chairs once they leave the steriliser. “I don’t know what you put in that steriliser but whatever it is, it’s doing a fantastic job,” Trottimus compliments. It’s like being on coffee, without the incoming caffeine crash.

“Oh, just a teensy bit of gas relaxant. It took me a few tries to get the dose just right,” Hollie airily says. “Poor Berym was the only one who’d volunteer for the experiment-”

“You put a relaxant in the steriliser.” Trottimus stares at her. “That’s actually a pretty good idea.” For some reason, people took sterilisation to be a painful procedure. If the machine isn’t calibrated correct, it could be.

“I’m glad someone agrees! Berym thinks it’s a stupid idea, since people wriggle too much and we have to start all over again,” Hollie rambles with a pleased look. “I can also prepare a medical report for each of you so Minty doesn’t get on my case about sending injured people out on Elpis.” She looks so obliging that the three can’t find it to deny her.

“Sure,” Trottimus agrees, slurring the word. A shrug from Alsmiffy answers Hollie. Ross nods, assuming that his metabolism is getting rid of the high. Disappointing but if he’s going to be like this forever, then no thanks.

“Great! It’ll be done in just a tic.” Hollie digistructs a transparent clipboard, holographic pages fluttering. She flips through it, eyes skimming through the text. Once she’s found what she’s looking for, she signs twice. She hesitates upon reaching Ross’ page. “I’m sorry, but do you have CLL? It just says here on your paperwork. I have to check.”

“Uh.” Ross hesitates to respond to her polite inquiry, eventually saying, “Yes.” He expects Hollie to recoil in disgust or begin asking invasive questions or being thrown out. What she does is nod and consult her clipboard more intensely.

“I’ve never dealt with someone who has CLL before.” Hollie scratches her head, her mouth setting into a puzzled line. Red strands of hair stand up on end. “Luckily for you, I remember reading some stuff the other day that might help you adjust to Pandora and Elpis.”

“What’s CLL?” Trottimus asks, eyeing Ross. Ross avoids meeting his gaze. 

While Trottimus and Alsmiffy have traveled with Ross for years now, he’s never quite elaborated on the nature of his transformations, nor have they ever made any effort to find out about it.

“It’s the technical term for lycanthropy!” Hollie brightly answers. She gestures to a monitor, pulling up a diagram of a werewolf. A few diagrams are linked to its brain, limbs and abdomen, displaying biological readouts and information. “It stands for ‘compulsive lunar lycanthropy’. It’s a really rare condition?” She glances at Ross, seeking approval to continue. None of the diagram can be understood by him.

“Yeah, it's a condition,” Ross says like he’s chewing on bubblegum. “Most doctors I’ve been to don’t like it.” If a medication for it exists, no doctor had ever been kind enough to bring it up, favouring kicking Ross out the door once his physical’s over.

“I’m sorry to hear that. You don’t know much about CLL?” It’s incredible how a sympathetic look from Hollie makes Ross feel better about telling her and the other two.

Hollie points to a diagram pointing at a region in the brain. “To start with, what few scans have been done on CLL patients show that there’s an extra region in the brain.” A blinking arrow indicates the area she’s talking about.

“There’s a  _ what _ in my brain?” Ross’ hands fly to his skull as his eyes bulge. “How did that get there?” 

“Nothing was done to you!” Hollie hastily says to placate Ross. “100% of CLL patients are descended from a single population back on Circe.”

“Wait, so all those times you threatened to bite us if we didn’t shut up wouldn’t have worked,” Trottimus says with growing incredulity. So far, he’s been following the conversation with a new interest. It’d have been nice to know about this earlier.

Ross grins, albeit nervously. “It worked, didn’t it, Trott?” He looks at Hollie, anxious about what else is new. “What’s the thing in my brain do?”

“We’re not quite sure yet, but the most popular and simplest theory is that the Eridians modified a subset of your ancestors to be biological weapons. The tiny thing in your brain imposes a special set of genetic instructions to kick in with exposure to...” Hollie rambles. And here is where Ross zones out, given how her sonorous words begin to adopt a whole bunch of medical and scientific jargon. So far, only Trottimus is capable of keeping up with her words, nodding in fascination as he absorbs the information.

Only when Hollie stops for breath at last does Ross speak up. “Did it work?” Ross flexes one of his hands. Clearly it did; out of the trio, Ross’ kill count outnumbers that of Trottimus and Alsmiffy’s combined. Killing feels natural to him. Perhaps a little too natural.

“I guess? Depending on how you look at it.” Hollie holds both of her hands out. “No offense to you,” She quickly says, wincing at her own words.

“None taken,” Ross says, still stunned that he’s got a bit of brain in his head that aliens had stuffed in his great-great-great-and so on grandparent centuries ago.

She waves away the diagram on the monitor. “A lot of your ancestors began to suffer anxiety and exhibit self-destructive behaviour on other worlds with a different lunar cycle...” Hollie begins to sound nervous, her eyes fixed on Ross. “Some individuals just seem predispositioned to adapt quicker.”

That would explain  _ a fucking lot,  _ ever since Ross left Circe to strike out on his own.

Trottimus links what she’s saying and her fears about Ross. “And you’re worried that it’ll happen to Ross?” Again, is what Trottimus doesn’t say out loud. Their stays on other worlds have been brief, never letting Ross grow that accustomed to a specific lunar cycle. Is lunar lag a thing? It should be a thing.

“Yes!” Hollie lets out a relieved sigh at being understood. “Pandora’s cycle is about ninety hours, give or take a couple hours. Elpis is most or less present at all times if you ever do go down to the planet.”

“Well, I’m not feeling the urge to transform now,” Ross interjects. “I’m feeling rather dandy.” It’s true; he hasn’t felt the pressure to transform since heading all the way out to this system. While the other two despised travel between planets, Ross quite likes the break in needing to transform. The compulsion isn’t as strong here. How odd.

“It’s not so bad on Elpis,” Hollie says. “But it might be a different story once you arrive on the planet.”

“You mean I’ll be transformed all the  _ time _ ?” Ross doesn’t bother to hide the horror in his voice. “But I like having opposable thumbs!”

“I actually don’t know what’ll happen if you do go down to the planet,” Hollie admits after a pause.

“What about other worlds with more than one moon? Ross was fine on them!” Trottimus points out.

“Elpis has quite an abnormal effect on the planet, actually.” Hollie taps the clipboard with a pen. “We don’t have enough information on CLL patients and lunar cycle effects to predict what’ll happen to Ross if he travels to Pandora. If we could spare the space, I’d ask you to stay here for some testing.”

“Could you take the thing out of my brain?” Ross proposes, aware that it’s a horribly rash decision and he probably shouldn’t have said it, judging by the looks on Hollie and Trottimus’ faces. Alsmiffy is halfway to his feet. Realising it, he sits back down, saying nothing.

Trottimus horrified pause is broken by his own scrambling onto both feet. “No! She’s not doing brain surgery on you!”

“Just as well, since I’m not a qualified brain surgeon!” Hollie agrees. The two throw surprised looks at each other.

“What are you, then?” Trottimus shoots at her. The doctor’s outfit has to mean something.

“I’m a midwife and a doctor!” Hollie hotly responds. “Can you see me cutting open people’s skulls?”

“Yes, actually, I don’t like to judge by appearances-”

“What about Berym?” Ross tries.

“Berym is just a nurse!” Hollie’s voice rises in pitch, becoming a squeak. “He can’t do brain surgery!”

“Calm down, it was just an idea!” Ross slumps back down onto his chair. “I don’t want to be a wolf all the time, it sucks wanting to eat everything that smells even the tiniest bit delicious.” He sounds so miserable that Trottimus wants to offer him a dog biscuit to lighten the mood.

“I do know what’ll happen to people who have that bit in your brain taken out, though.” Hollie’s gaze softens. “They die. The Eridians knew what they were doing, in engineering that self-destruct mechanism.”

“Fucking aliens,” Ross swears. He removes his hand from the edge of the chair to avoid tearing off a chunk.

“I think Ross will be fine,” Alsmiffy’s quiet voice says. It’s the first time in ages that he’s spoken since sitting down. “He’s been through worse, after all.”

“We still need to take precautions,” Hollie advises with a sympathetic look. “And tranquilizers are out of the question.”

“The sleeping pills they tried to dose me with back on Helios aren’t kicking in,” Ross notes, remembering the odd textured bits he’d munched on in his skag meat burger. He’d just assumed it’d been unprocessed chunks of marrow that the cheapest of fast foods tended to possess.

“You’ll need to eat as much as you can. Your medical report says you’re nearly malnourished.” Hollie begins to sound businesslike, her voice returning to normal. “I’ll see if I can get you a premium ration subscription for a discount using your CLL as the reason plus extra vitamins.”

“You can do that?” He’s learning a lot today. Today is a good day, in Ross’ eyes.

“Yes?” Hollie stares at him. “Hang on, you didn’t know?” Her pen aborts another signing.

“No.” Ross shakes his head. “I never knew. It would have been nice to know, in the past.”

“If I ever meet your doctors, I am going to…” Hollie makes a series of violent gestures, using her pen to illustrate her point. Her accent lends Ross an image of Hollie humming as she lugs body bags to a dumpster. He nearly giggles.

The clipboard goes flying on top of a trolley, crashing against a box of empty Anshin syringes. “In that case, you’ll also need…” Hollie begins to dash around the medical bay, picking up items and tossing them into one of the spare medkits. “Extra bandages, medical gel...” She turns, holding up a red fluid-filled syringe. “Plus one Anshin syringe. That’s all I can spare. Use it wisely.” The last part is said in a dramatic way.

“I don’t think I’ll need it,” Ross says. “Trott’s got his surveyors to fix us up.” Trottimus nearly kicks Ross in the back of the chair for the fondness in his voice.

“You never know,” Hollie says, tucking the syringe in the medkit. She zips it up, handing the tiny red bag over to Ross. The bulging sides are about to explode the zip off. “I’ve also put ration coupons in there for you three.”

A tiny, fake-sounding cough from Trottimus catches her attention. “Not to be rude or anything, but why are you helping us?”

“You came in here needing help.” Hollie puts her hands on her hips. “And it’s my duty to help whoever comes in here.”

“Thank you.” As Ross’ hand closes over the bag’s strap, he looks at her with sincere gratitude.

Hollie flushes, right as Berym returns. Berym takes one look at them, concludes that they’re done in the medical bay and says, “Your first job is with the scavs in the emporium, so if I were you, I’d get going.”

She leans over to whisper to Ross, “Don’t tell Berym I gave you all that stuff for free.”

“Listen, if you ever need someone roughed up, call us.” Ross proudly jabs a thumb at his own chest. “We’ll take care of it for you.”

“Thanks.” Hollie laughs, mimicking Minty’s thicker accent, “See you around, boys.” She mines tipping an invisible hat at them, winking. Berym makes a sound that’s suspiciously like an amused snort.

The trio depart the medical bay. Since Bluari hasn’t given back their modules, Ross is forced to carry the medkit by hand. He decides to clutch it to his chest, feeling dreadfully protective of it. There’s not a lot in there that he’ll ever make use of but it’s the thought put into the gesture that matters.

Alsmiffy is silent, again. Ross nudges him, largely so that he’s not neglecting the bastard. “You alright?”

“I’m just thinking about how you were doing before you moved in with me and Trott,” Alsmiffy reveals in a level tone.

“I was doing okay,” Ross says. That’s a terrible, terrible lie. He’d barely been treading water, exhausted of holding his head up above the surface. Finding Trottimus and Alsmiffy had been akin to his feet stepping onto a sand break to get a bit of well-deserved rest before another ten hour swim. After that had come solace and a new life.

All that stuff about his condition is new, though. Aliens. His brain is different to that of Trottimus and Alsmiffy’s. Ross finds that he doesn’t mind it so much these days 

(he hadn’t, ever since he’d told them about being a werewolf). It’ll take him a while to get over it.

“Whatever happens on Pandora happens,” Trottimus says with his eyes having drifted to said planet. “Based on what Hollie told us, you won’t be transformed all the time, probably only during nighttime. No change there.”

“That’s still a fucking long time,” Ross says. “Ninety hours. That makes, what, forty-five hours of nighttime?”

“Some of it will be sunset. And Ross?”

“Yes?” Ross drags the word out, knowing that it’s annoying. Sure enough, Trottimus punches him in the funny bone. Ross shrugs it off.

“Tell us if you feel the need to hurt yourself. We can’t have our top muscle damaging his own guns.” Trottimus doesn't have to turn for Ross to see the smile on his face.

“I will,” Ross says, hoping that it won’t come to that. He tells himself that there’s no point in worrying about it now, seeing as they’re not leaving Elpis for a while.

At the customs office, Bluari returns the digistruct modules (plus a complimentary information brochure on Elpis) with a grin. “Have a nice day and I hope you enjoy your stay on Elpis!” It’s annoying how chirpy he sounds. “Good luck with your jobs!”

Once the trio are back outside, Trottimus tosses the brochure into the bin. “This is a rock floating in space, I can’t possibly see us being tourists,” He comments (though not meanly).

Ross fishes the brochure out of the bin. “I want to read it anyway.”

“Suit yourself.” Their ECHO devices are pinged with a message from Minty. It’s directing them to a shop by the Fast Travel Station. It feels that the message is a subtle reminder that they’re operating in Concordia under her conditions rather than their own.

“Is she telling us to go to a black market?” Trottimus squints at the text on his HUD.

“I think she is,” Ross says. “Hey, where’d Alsmiffy go?” Under normal circumstances, Alsmiffy being quiet indicated trouble brewing. In these ones, not so much. 

The two look up to find Alsmiffy adding his own dick to the headless statue using a permanent marker stolen from the medical bay. He scrawls ‘drawn by BERYM’ underneath it, with a flourish, returning to the graffiti.

Ross grants Alsmiffy five minutes to finish off his masterpiece before dragging him away to the black market. It turns out that the black market is a tacky looking shop with the sign ‘SCAVS EMPORUM O’ STUFF’. The word ‘SCAVS’ is scribbled over the word ‘SPRINGS’ and an ‘i’ is missing from the second word.

Still, the trio enter the shop. Two figures are inside the shop. One has their feet up on a desk in the side room. They’re snoring away. Glasses (with one of the lens cracked) hide their eyes. The other figure is attacking a Grinder with a wrench.

Both are dressed like people from an apocalyptic doomsday movie, every article of clothing matted with moon dust and stains, crusted boots almost falling apart with every step.

Alsmiffy feels that he’s already better dressed than them in his own fancy suit (however shabby it is upon closer inspection). Even with Trottimus’ lab coat, the sentiment is shared between them.

“Oi! Dave, we’ve got customers!” The brown-haired figure with the wrench bellows. 

The one in the other room almost falls backwards off their chair. They breeze into the room, rubbing both hands in eager anticipation. Their glasses are askew on their face, making it feel as though trio are staring at a five-eyed creature.

“How can I help you?” begins the figure in a pleasant voice. Something bugs Ross about the way their words sounds, almost like it’s deliberately based off Berym’s accent.

“We’re not here to buy,” Trottimus proceeds to disappoint Dave.

Dave’s face falls. “Oh. Minty sent you, yeah?”

“Yes,” Ross says. “What do you need us to do?” The two figures smell like they’rd just stepped out of a junkyard.

“You seem like a bloody capable bunch,” observes the figure who’s stopped hitting the Grinder. Ross eyes the Grinder, thinking of the possible loot it’d spit out if he fed it a bunch of his crappy guns. The figure notices, smiling. “Sorry, the Grinder’s carked it,” The figure tells him. Ross’ disappointed look earns a laugh. 

“So, the job’s this,” Dave interrupts with a contemptuous look thrown at his friend. The way he waves his hands about reminds Ross of Hollie. “One of our mates has gone walkabout at the S.S. Drakensburg’s crash site and we haven’t heard from him for a day or so.”

“Rob’s fine, he’s probably just gotten lost,” The figure by the Grinder interjects. “Dave’s just paranoid that Rob’s lost the parts he was supposed to be nicking off the old ship,” They explain.

“Well, Nath, someone around here has to be  _ responsible _ ,” Dave sighs. Under his breath, he says, “More responsible than accidentally feeding Eridium to the Grinder and making it kick the bucket.”

Nath flushes. “I thought it’d spit out the Eridium, not crush it into itty bitty pieces and stall it!”

“Gentlemen, from what I understand, you want us to go and find your mate and bring him back,” Trottimus intervenes with a diplomatic air. Ross almost snorts from how he’s mimicking Dave and Nath’s accents.

Dave and Nath stare at Trottimus. Nath speaks, “Uh, yeah, that’s pretty much it.” The wrench is lowered as Nath wipes a hand on his pants.

“And you’re not allowed to run off with the goods, ‘cause it’s ours!” Dave accuses. “We found it first! Or rather, Rob did,” He quickly adds.

“Do we get to use the Grinder if we come back with your friend?” Ross is still eyeing up the broken Grinder. 

“Sure.” Nath shrugs. “If you find a filter for it, bring it back and maybe it’ll fix the bugger.” His eyes adopt a glassy look as he goes into his HUD. “Here’s the coords for the Drakensburg. I’d grab a couple of fiery guns since there’s torks about.”

“Torks?” Trottimus and Ross glance at each other.

“Torks,” Dave gravely say, his brow furrowing. “Maybe Rob ran afoul of them-”

“Rob’s not that stupid,” Nath hastily says. “And torks are easy enough to deal with if you’re packing enough heat.”

“Okay, before we go, I have to ask you two something,” Trottimus says. “Are you two actually from Elpis because your accents don’t match everybody else’s.”

“What’d you say about our accents?” Nath’s grip on the wrench tightens.

“You can’t blame us for trying to fit in!” Dave says, looking on the verge of tears. “Is it that noticeable?”

At Dave’s wobbly accent, Nath steps forward, now brandishing the wrench in his hands. “You making fun of our accents?” He coolly asks.

“It’s not our real accents,” Dave admits, grabbing Nath's arm. “They’re not making fun of us, they just want to know why we talk like this.”

“Alright.” Nath lets himself be pulled back by Dave, though not without a contemptuous look at the trio. “We were scavs but Minty set up us in Concordia if we got her some stuff.”

“What kind of ‘stuff’?” Trottimus inquires. He’s not sorry for picking on them. “Just in case we spot anything that she might like,” He adds, just in case the two think that he’s just trying to dig up dirt on Minty. 

“Just the stuff Rob’s trying to bring back,” Nath says. “Everything else needs to be traded from Pandora-”

Dave interrupts to say, “So it’d be nice if you went and got Rob back and we’ll throw in free use of the Grinder once you get back, hm?”

“Sounds fair enough,” Ross says, his powers of observation failing him.

Trottimus purses his lips. Nath and Dave shoot him grins that are not at all indicative of their attempt to hide something. Upon closer inspection, Nath and Dave are beginning to look shabby, thinning cheeks hidden by the thick layers of dust smeared on their faces.

The four jump when the vending machine clunks. They turn to see Alsmiffy harassing the vending machine for ammo. The vending machine continues to noisily clunk as it spits out a sealed cartridge of shotgun rounds. Spotting their expressions, Alsmiffy shrugs to ask ‘What?’ and carries on.

“We’ll let you use the Moon Buggy and Stingrays,” Dave tempts. “Fast Travel’s been jam-”

“Jam packed lately, is what he meant to say!” Nath elbows Dave, uttering a maniacal laugh that sounds faked.

“Yes, please!” Ross doesn’t know what a Moon Buggy or a Stingray is but they sound cool.

“We’ll be back,” Trottimus declares in a grave tone, turning to leave. That hadn’t been at all fishy.

Nath and Dave appear to sigh at avoiding any questions. With any luck, they’ll have avoided raising suspicion in regards to Minty’s reason for hiring the three criminals. Not that Nath and Dave can say much about about that, given their former lives as scavs. They prefer to think of themselves as ‘reformed’, thank you.

\--

The given coordinates lead the trio to a place called ‘Pity’s Fall’. It’s located in the Outlands Spur, a series of freezing plains interspersed with bedrock-like sheets of ice, cracked oxygen vents and hulking, lizard-like creatures made out of ice. Whatever the creatures are, the Moon Buggy’s laser cannon makes short work of their hides, even if the creatures multiplied with every blast.

The Oz Kits Bluari had snuck into their inventories serve to keep the trio alive between the oxygenated domes scattered along the meandering route.

Since the Moon Buggy can only fit two, Ross and Alsmiffy opt to tag team. Trottimus follows behind on a Stingray, allowing the other two to race ahead and clear a path for him. 

Learning the Stingray hadn’t taken that much time. Trottimus is pleased that he doesn’t careen into anything within the first five minutes of trying it out. Ross and Alsmiffy pulled donuts, Ross whooping in glee and making racing car noises the whole time. Alsmiffy opted to hang on for dear life.

It’s nice to have the three surveyors back in Trottimus’ possession. One of the combat surveyors scouts ahead, spurts of its engine sending it flying forwards. The lessened gravity on Elpis is fucking with the surveyor’s velocity and the pitiful A.I. in charge of the surveyor’s programming. It isn’t that advanced as to account for it.

Trottimus will have to watch out for that, especially if he plans to get into a fight with these ‘torks’ later.

The Moon Buggy and Stingray are abandoned once they reach Pity’s Fall after taking a shortcut through a long-dead facility. A climb up a craggy hill (and dodging a fiery variant of the lizard creatures) deposits them in front of the decaying frigate.

It’s a shell of its former self, split along the front and along the back like a dark green party cracker left to rot. Below it, molten globs of lava licks at the cliffs supporting the ship. Ross, Trottimus and Alsmiffy swallow, taking in the sight for a few moments. They purchase ammo from the vending machines by the Fast Travel Station, procrastinating on entering.

Trottimus notes down the area code, adding to his growing list of Elpis Fast Travel Stations now at their disposal. Sadly, the Fast Travel Stations aren’t working at the moment due to a ‘signal error’.

“How are we going to find Rob in that?” Ross complains. “It’ll take us days to go through the whole ship!”

“Not days, more like hours,” Trottimus corrects. “We could start at one end and comb our way through-” The sensible suggestion sails over Ross’ head.

“No, we’re not doing that. I refuse!” Ross shakes his shaggy head, crossing his arms over his chest. Sulking.

“Stop pouting and let’s just start looking,” Trottimus tries to cajole. Ross continues to sulk.

Deciding that Ross is going to tag along and is only being a drama queen, Trottimus examines the scouting information in his HUD. He’d recalled a surveyor a while back to stop it from flying off into the busted bridge. Now he lets it out, allowing it to fill in the remaining area for him.

So far, the frigate’s damaged halves (or thirds, depending on how nitpicky he wanted to be with how it’s split apart) would probably take three hours at most to sweep through. That’s if they’re quick about it and don’t fuck around looting the place (which is inevitable).

It’s always night on Elpis, or at least, it feels like night is dominant here. The Oz Kits announce that it’s done refilling via the dome they’re standing in. Trottimus takes it as a sign that they should head up the slope and stop dawdling.

Dead bodies are everywhere. “Scavs,” Alsmiffy reports, nudging one with his boot. “Probably died a long time ago.” He fishes out an unused ammo cartridge from the scavs’ front pocket. “Elpis doesn’t have much of an atmosphere for them to decay properly.”

“Don't touch the bodies,” Trottimus snaps at him. Normally, he wouldn’t get so touchy about looting. Alsmiffy shrugs, still pocketing the ammo.

“It’s not like they have any need for it,” is the light statement Alsmiffy says in response. Still, he refrains from looting any of the other bodies that they come across on their way to the frigate.

The defensive guns on the frigate’s side have been shot off, succumbing to dust. All three of their boots leave faint footprints on the floor. An eerie silence greets them for a second before their footsteps chase it away. 

Inside, there’s even more bodies are left out in the open. A couple sport bites like something had tried to chew on them, clothing torn to reveal all manner of wounds. Ross tries not to think about what’ll happen if one gets up; the bodies are certainly at too well of a rest to suddenly awaken, right?

“It’s like a mass grave in here,” He mutters, avoiding a dried puddle of blood and a bullet-ridden suited body. His mouth makes a low, nervous whistling sound.

“Well, whatever caused it can’t be here,” Trottimus says (largely to reassure himself). “Look at all this dust.” He runs a hand down a locker missing a door, his hand becoming covered.

The dust he’d picked up on his finger layers the shield protecting his skin from coming into direct contact with it. He wipes his hand on a tattered spacesuit, his surveyor’s blue eye following his every move.

“Let’s take a look around.” Ross ignores the gut feeling that they’re being followed. Usually, his instinct is right.

In the security room, Alsmiffy is examining a box of unopened rations for the use-by date when a scuttling noise behind him draws his attention like the fuse of a firework about to go off. He assumes it’s Ross fucking with him; Ross had a habit of sneaking up on him for a cheap laugh. Except, Ross’ feet didn’t ‘click’ on the metal floor; Ross tended to ‘lumber about like a ballerina wearing concrete shoes’.

Alsmiffy whirls around with his finger on his shotgun’s trigger. Several metres away, a four-legged, puke-green creature is watching him. Beady eyes take in his form. The eyes remind him of Trottimus. Its round shelled head curiously surveys him.

“Hey Ross, come look at this!” Alsmiffy calls, trying not to let himself appear so startled. Ross emerges from the other room. He too, spots the creature.

“Urgh, what’s this critter?” He points at it with the barrel of his gun. “It’s disgusting! It’s like an insect had babies with itself!”

“I don’t know,” Alsmiffy says after a pause where he tries to figure out exactly what the creature staring at them is. The staring’s beginning to get on his nerves. “Stop staring at me,” He growls. The creature mutely continues to stare. A leg clicks against the floor.

“Maybe it thinks you’re its friend, because of how green you both are,” Ross jokes. He chuckles at his own joke.

“Would friends do this?” Incensed, Alsmiffy pulls the trigger. Purple blood splatters across the ground with a sound akin to that of a balloon meeting a bunch of spines. The tork’s head flies up to smack into the ceiling before colliding wetly with the wall.

Ross begins to roar with laughter, only to start shrieking as creatures pour into the room from the vents, the other rooms and Alsmiffy really regrets doing that because now he and Ross are doing their best to backpedal and find Trottimus.

“Trott!” Ross bellows, his voice echoing along the corridors. He gulps down air for that, trying to avoid tripping over anything in the hallway. Countless clicking and scuttling noises almost steal his words from him.

“What?” Trottimus is up ahead, accompanied by two surveyors. His eyes widen as he takes in the sight of Alsmiffy and Ross being chased by a flood of torks. “What did you  _ do _ ?” He howls as he lobs a grenade into the flood- it barely dents the tsunami surging forward towards him. The surveyors flee into Trottimus’ inventory.

“Alsmiffy shot one first!” Ross tattles, hoping that he won’t lose his footing and be devoured alive.

The trio emerge onto a creaking scav-made bridge along the side of the frigate. The grate bounces under their feet with every step. Torks keep swarming behind them. 

The oxygen dome stretches as far as the end of the grate before snapping back into place once the three have pushed through. Detecting the drop in air quality and presence, the Oz kits kick. Vision blurs for a split second before clearing. The clicking and scuttling noises have magnified a hundredfold as torks continue to join the army, driven by a single-minded desire for revenge.

Alsmiffy counters with, “How was I supposed to know that it was going to call for help!” He digistructs a glove, aiming it behind him. Nothing happens when he activates the gas. He shakes his hand to free the vent- the vent in his palm is definitely open and connected to the rest of the gear. “Why isn’t my glove  _ working _ ?”

“Because you’re in space, stupid!” Trottimus screams as he shoots a tork attempting to spear him in the knee. A kick sends the ravaged husk flying into the lava filled abyss below. Its blood stains the cap on Trottimus’ boot.

Alsmiffy sees no point in keeping the glove out when it’s not doing anything to help, despawning it. Ross has sprinted ahead to barge into an airlock, forcing it open with a grunt.

“In here!” He waves them in, using his abnormal strength to yank the door shut. Thuds assault the door. The three back away from it to the other side of the room. Without needing to say anything, the three turn and dash along the corridor leading away from the airlock straining to hold against the creatures.

With his sleeve, Ross wipes off a map on the wall so they can see where they are. They're ten minutes away from the bridge. If they’re going to find anyone, it’ll be at the bridge, provided it’s still secure.

“I really am useless,” Alsmiffy laughs, making Ross and Trottimus jump at the sound.

Trottimus refrains from saying ‘yes, you are’, largely to avoid it giving way to the rest of the things that he’d like to scream at Alsmiffy, starting with ‘I fucking hate you and would like to repeatedly stab a pencil into your eyeballs’.

“You’re not,” Ross says, panting and doubling over to catch his breath. That had been too close for comfort.

“I just fucked us over,” Alsmiffy says, nodding at the airlock they’d left behind.

“We’d have fucked ourselves sooner or later,” Ross says. “Those torks are everywhere.” It’s mutually agreed upon that torks suck.

Alsmiffy doesn’t respond, staring into the air past Ross’ head. Ross glances at Trottimus. Trottimus is moving to the other side of the room. There’s no need to say anything to comfort Alsmiffy about being a dead weight, from his perspective.

The bridge is exposed to the open air. Fortunately, no torks are in sight. Perhaps they couldn’t build their nests (or hives or whatever disgusting constructs they lived in) along the diagonal sides of the frigate. Someone had set up an oxygen dome to cover the whole bridge.

In one of the chairs on the top floor, they find Rob. Rob is sprawled on the chair with a cardboard box in his lap. The box contains a bunch of parts torn from here and there in the frigate. Rob’s eyes are open wide, mouth slightly open so a glob of drool is poised to drip onto his jacket. His expression is vacant.

Alsmiffy waves a hand over Rob’s peaceful face. “Not breathing,” He coolly concludes.

“He’s not dead, is he?” Ross squints at Rob’s face. Where’s a marker when he needs one?

“Not breathing usually means dead, Ross,” Trottimus says, examining the bridge. Nothing of use leaps out at him. The weapon chests have long since been emptied. Deteriorated equipment are riddled with dust to the point of choking up anything potentially useful.

Alsmiffy pokes Rob’s face with an exploratory finger. Rob blinks. Alsmiffy leaps back, falling on his ass. Rob and Alsmiffy scream at each other, Rob clawing to get out of the chair. The box of parts falls onto the floor.

“Why are you poking me?” Rob shrieks at him. 

“Why are you not  _ dead _ ?” Alsmiffy screams back.

“What is going  _ on _ ?” Ross joins the screaming just because he can.

“Stop it, you’ll attract the torks!” Trottimus screams in turn. Everyone’s mouths clap shut. A second of silence so tense like one that follows a fart in a crowded elevator resounds along the bridge.

No clicks announce the imminent arrival of torks. That leaves Trottimus free to glare at Rob, Alsmiffy and Ross. Rob is the only one with the gall to look sheepish, rubbing the back of his buzzed head. 

“Sorry,” He mumbles. “I sleep with my eyes open,” He adds like it might excuse his screaming or dozing off.

It fails dismally. Alsmiffy is grabbing him by the front of his jacket, hauling him up onto both feet. Rob scrabbles to escape, hands shoving against arms. Alsmiffy retains his hold, pressing his masked face until it’s inches away from headbutting Rob in the head. Alsmiffy’s had plenty of practice.

“Explain why you didn’t ECHO your mates so that we don’t have to lie about finding your dead body for leading us on,” He snarls, every word backed by a fury at finding out that they’d come all this way for nothing.

Rob launches into a explanation at the speed of light, “IpissedoffsometorksanddecidedtohideuphereuntiltheythoughtIbuggeredoffpardonmypunandfellasleepbecauserippingstuffoutishardworkandforgottocallthat’sliterallyallthereistoit.”

Concluding that the explanation is satisfactory, Alsmiffy dumps him onto the floor. It doesn’t stop his seething, largely because there’s not exactly any reward here that he can take.

Ross takes up the task by hefting Rob up by the back of his jacket. “You’re coming back with us,” He states. He’s not as pissed as Alsmiffy is, choosing to channel is anger into how forcefully cheerful he sounds.

Rob just nods three times in succession before halting another nod. “At least let me pick up all the parts that I came here for?” He points to the mess at his feet. “Can’t do that if you’re holding me up- oof!” Ross obliges by dropping him.

The four of them waste fifteen minutes gathering up the parts that’d scattered; a few had landed on the dying jump pad, being flung to all corners of the bridge. Fortunately, the weak gravity that Elpis exerts renders the retrieval a trivial matter.

Rob shows them a way out of the frigate past all the torks; leaping out of the hole in the side and using the Oz Kit to boost all the way out over the torks, eventually butt slamming down to the Fast Travel Station. Rob hastily enables said station by plugging the antennae back in, nearly causing Trottimus to punch him for depriving Hat Corp. of a shortcut and making them fight through all that shit to reach the frigate.

“Let us never come back here again,” Ross says. “Also, torks smell really weird.” They smelled like the inside of a trash can that’s had the leftover contents of diners run through a spin cycle on high heat.

“They taste like chicken though,” Rob automatically says, almost defensively.

“That’s the weirdest fucking thing I’ve ever heard anybody say,” Trottimus instantly responds before the Fast Travel Station whisks them back to Concordia.

\--

\- / / CamBuckland is now online. / / -

CamBuckland: Hello?

SherlockHulmes: Welcome back!

SherlockHulmes: You’ve been missing for a while!

SherlockHulmes: Where have you been?

Falk: What the Falk have you been up to?

EloraGalanodel: It’s good to hear from you, Cam!

EloraGalanodel: That was terrible, Falk.

Falk: I aim to please!

TrellimarAleath: I hate to say it, but we actually missed you.

CamBuckland: Oh, you. Remind me to repay you later ;) 

TrellimarAleath: Raincheck, please.

TrellimarAleath: But do enlighten us as to where you’ve been.

SherlockHulmes: And to prove our speculations wrong.

CamBuckland: Got chased by torks.

Falk: You for real?”

\- / / SherlockHulmes is now idle. / / -

CamBuckland: I shit you not.

CamBuckland: I got pics.

CamBuckland: Let me edit my face out.

CamBuckland: Ta-da.

EloraGalanodel: Awww, it’s kind of cute.

TrellimarAleath: Excuse me while I puke into a bucket.

Falk: GROSS, GET IT OUT OF HERE.

LobenTrogdor: My word, what is that hideous creature and it should totally be a thing in our next campaign!

Falk: Get the bug spray, I’m begging you.

EloraGalanodel: I also like your animal pin!

CamBuckland: Why thank you, dear Elora. Perhaps I’ll repay you instead.

EloraGalanodel: I think Trell would like the offer instead.

TrellimarAleath: I do not, thank you!

Falk: How’s your skin holding up?

CamBuckland: No lumps yet.

CamBuckland: Which is a good sign.

SherlockHulmes: Sorry about being afk, my boss wanted me to buy a stupidly expensive lighter for my other boss’ birthday.

SherlockHulmes: WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT THING?

\--

Trottimus’ daily walk around Elpis lasts for a thrilling twenty minutes. Or half an hour, if he manages to get hold of a decent ECHOnet connection to log into the BnB chat and partake in his favourite pastime (aside from harvesting the funds from the tidy pyramid scheme he and Ross are running on the clickables project).

For some reason, the ECHOnet connection on Elpis is the shoddiest one that Trottimus has ever encountered in his life. That’s saying something, given his extensive travels. Scowling, Trottimus gives up for the time being on the fifth attempt to connect, stowing his ECHO device into his pocket.

The last week’s been packed with jobs. Said jobs ranged from finding someone’s lost journal (by rooting through the garbage disposal underneath the settlement), tork extermination (cooked tork flesh really did taste like chicken, if rather crunchy and far too green to look at), fetch quests (drilling ice for the medical bay, involving fun with a colony of floating ice shugguraths), and making sure Concordia’s favourite scavs (Nath, Rob and Dave, that is; it also turns out that Hollie is also part of their gang) don’t go bankrupt with their scavenging business.

In exchange, Trottimus, Ross and Alsmiffy have been granted the luxury of residing in Concordia’s backpacker hotel. It reeked of sweaty feet due to the clogged ventilation suffering fits of coughing that made it perpetually rattle and groan. All the rooms have whole families living in each, except for only free room that the three can barely squeeze together in. It’s a perpetually dank shithole. 

It’s almost like home.

At that moment, Trottimus ends up by the balcony overlooking the runways that form Concordia’s miniature airfield. An elevator below would take him down. No security clearance is needed, when he tests the call button.

There’s no special reason for Trottimus to check out the runways, not when there’s no aircraft inbound or outbound. Posted at diagonal intervals from the runways are massive anti-aircraft cannons, all of them aimed upwards at Helios. Shooting stars streak across the sky, leaving white trails that vanish once he’s blinked. The cannons rotate to follow their movement.

Whatever is going on, there’s no traffic above or around Concordia. It strikes Trottimus as unusual, given that the mail schedule posted at the bounty board denotes that the latest shipment should have arrived approximately thirteen hours ago. Only one pilot risks delivering to Elips and back. Passenger bound for Pandora typically hitched a ride with them.

Minty calmly maintains that the schedule is out of date and has been, ever since Dahl and Hyperion fucked off. Trottimus is inclined to say that while Dahl is no longer a concern, Hyperion still is.

Helios’ proximity to Elpis meant that it could send forces down to retake the settlement. The military force on Helios is sufficient to overpower Concordia, even if a sheriff who rules with an iron fist is in charge. Even if all the citizens are armed, they’re no match for Helios’ private army of robots and foot soldiers.

A shooting star tapers off, drifting close enough for Trottimus to recognize what it really is. His stomach does a backflip, plummeting down into his gut and hard enough to make him forget about everything else. 

Those aren’t shooting stars Trottimus is seeing: they’re  _ Hyperion fighters _ .

His eyes trace the outline of the cannons on the horizon. An elevator trip plus the Oz Kit allow him to trek to the closest defensive cannon. It takes him about ten minutes to reach it at a light jogging pace.

A poke around the inside (after using a surveyor to pick the lock) sends Trottimus 

scrambling back to the elevator, sprinting all the way to the bar that Minty owns, the Captive Creeper.

Inside the bar is a cage with a swagman snoring away. A bit of cardboard dangles from the cage. ‘DAVECHAOS’ is the swagman’s name; as to whether or not it’s all an act is the last thing on Trottimus’ mind.

He stomps over to the bar where Minty is wiping up a spilled drink. Berym is lugging the drunk patron responsible off to be hosed into sobriety. Berym stares at Trottimus barging past him.

Minty looks up when Trottimus slams a hand down onto the bar, upsetting a cocktail. She steadies it with a palm, peering at him. One eyebrow raises.

“Why are there Hyperion fighters above us?” Trottimus pants. He’s aware that his red-faced appearance is undermining his dramatic inquiry.

Minty slides aside the cocktail, the rag wiping down the bar coming to a standstill. “They’re not here for you,” She says. “I’ve kept to my side of the bargain.”

“Then why aren’t they being shot down?” Trottimus knows what he saw. The Hyperion fighter had swept over the dome, remaining out of firing distance. In spite of that, it’d come close enough to present a problem.

“They’ll get shot down if they come any closer,” Minty maintains.

“One just passed close enough to drop a bomb on Concordia!”

“That won’t happen, we’re the only settlement on Elpis worth taking if it means they won’t have to waste money building another one.” Minty scoffs.

“The cannons don’t  _ work _ .” Trottimus throws down his observation like he would a duel. He’s not panicking, he’s just concerned.

“How do you know they don’t work?” Minty tosses back in his face. He loathes how she’s doing it with a calmness that doesn’t fit the situation.

If she thinks that’d work, she's wrong. “Because I’ve just been in one and  _ this  _ is what I found.” Trottimus lobs down the drained power core he’d pulled out of the cannon he’d broken into. It meets the bar with a crack.

Minty stares at the power core rolling to a stop on the bar. She raises both of her hands, slowly clapping. It doesn’t sound as poetic as it should have, given that one of her arms is a prosthetic free of synthetic skin. “Well fucking done,” She drawls, looking at Trottimus once more. “Mystery solved. Would you like me to write you a check?”

“Why haven’t you fixed them?” Trottimus demands, ignoring her sarcasm.

“We don’t have any power cores left in Concordia,” Minty states, her hands moving to pick up the power core.

“What about all the scavenging you’ve had us do?” Trottimus is really trying not to yell at her. Being stranded on Elpis is one thing. Dying on Elpis is another.

She is silent for about ten seconds. “If you haven’t found any power cores, then there’s none left on Elpis.” A strand of hair is tucked behind her ear. “That’s why I’ve been pushing our scavs to find even just one we can plug in.”

Half the missions have been scavenging ones with nothing to show for it. “You tricked us!” Those three words don’t carry the full weight of Trottimus’ outrage. He almost knocks over a bar stool, reminding himself that he’s not about to throw a tantrum like Alsmiffy.

“I did,” Minty acknowledges. She leans forward, planting the power core on the table. “If Hyperion knew how defenceless Concordia is, they’d be all over us faster than torks finding a scav hideout.” She folds her arms over her chest.

“So we’re stuck here with  _ you _ .” It’s not her imagination that Trottimus sounds sour about that, nor does she blame him.

“You’re only stuck here until the guns are fixed,” Minty corrects. “That’s your new job. Top priority.”

“How are we supposed to fix it if there’s no power cores?”

“You’re a bunch of smart lads. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Minty smiles. “Until then, enjoy your stay in Concordia and starving with us. By the way, here’s a present.” A green rock is slid towards him. It’s snatched up in his hand.

“Fuck you!” Trottimus snaps, turning to storm out of the bar. He throws the moonstone at Davechaos, eliciting a startled grunt and a curse when the rock hits the swagman in the forehead.

“You’re not my type!” Minty calls out from the bar. “Not enough guns,” She mutters under her breath.

While Minty is all that stands between Hyperion and Concordia being back under the corporation’s control, Trottimus loathes how she’d tricked them into helping out Concordia. True, some of the jobs had paid well but that’s not the point.

He’s calling Minty every variation of ‘asshole’ under his breath to disguise noticing the round figure tailing him. It’s a pretty shit attempt, the figure jogging and darting over to the shadows rather than trying to look inconspicuous as possible by playing it cool.

Shirt sleeves rolled up, Ross is sitting outside the hotel, beating a blanket free of bedbugs with a broomstick. Alsmiffy is keeping up a firewall underneath the blanket, roasting all and any critters that couldn’t hang onto the fabric. The tourist brochure is being leafed through in one hand.

“Trott, why the long face?” Ross sees his approach, halting in his smacking. Putting away the brochure (and dang, he’d reached an interesting bit about the Vaults), Alsmiffy inches the wall up, intending to set the blanket on fire with Ross being distracted.

Ross knows. He despawns the blanket, drawing closer to Trottimus. The look on Trottimus’ face is enough to make a transformed Ross’ ears droop.

Trottimus grabs Ross’ tie, forcing Ross down to his eye level. “We’re stuck here!” He shouts into Ross’ face. In an undertone, he adds, “I’m being followed.” A flick of his eyes indicates where the figure is hiding, an elbow and an anxious face sticking out from behind a dumpster.

Over Trottimus’ shoulder, a bald head ducks behind the dumpster’s lid. Alsmiffy’s spotted the signal. He disappears into the building, emerging with a garbage bag, casually moving to drop it off.

Instead of throwing it into the dumpster once he’s close enough, Alsmiffy leaps at the figure, both gloved hand held up. The bag flops onto the floor, spilling pillows.

“Freeze!” Alsmiffy screams in his ‘I’m pretending to be a cop’ voice. It also doubles as his ‘I’m about to chuck a major wobbly’ one.

“Don’t hurt me!” screams the figure, dropping into a defensive crouch.

“Who’re you?” Ross demands, growling to back up Alsmiffy’s threat of fire (or lack thereof). He holds up the broom like he would a shotgun.

Trottimus’ digistructed surveyor nudges the figure in the back of the head. The figure babbles, “I’m here to help!”

“We don’t need help, we need a fucking miracle,” Trottimus says, turning off the surveyor’s electric bolts (because he’s never quite sure if it ever stays off).

“I’m your miracle,” swiftly declares the figure with confidence that seems foolish in the face of fire, a vicious mauling and electrocution.

“So you counter hair loss?” Ross asks, eyeing the figure’s bald, perspiring head. Not that he needs it, but Ross shoots a look at Alsmiffy. Alsmiffy should have reacted by singing Ross’ eyebrows off. Instead, Alsmiffy remains silent.

“I can fix the cannons,” the figure instantly says with cocksure confidence. Now they have Trottimus’ attention.

“How? There’s not a single power core to be found on Elpis.” Saying it out loud makes the reality somewhat worse.

The figure coughs, clearing their throat. “The, uh, cannons aren't actually out of power.” They proceed to admit with less confidence, “I’ve just fried the circuit powering them.”

“That’s not something you can easily do,” Trottimus says, ignoring the urge to facepalm. “Then what about the empty power core I took out?”

“I’ve learned from my mistake! It was a massive mistake to connect it to my current set-up without a surge protector,” the figure says, a touch defensively. “The empty power cores are the backup and they’ve run out a long time ago.”

“So you’re the reason we’re stuck here.” Trottimus is tempted to shock the figure; only the fact that the figure can fix the cannons stops him from flicking the switch preventing the electric bolts from firing.

“Now you know. Minty doesn’t.” The figure grins, almost smugly. The grin is wiped off when Ross leans over.

“Are you blackmailing us?” Ross flicks a claw up. A line of blood results along the figure’s head. 

“Hey, watch the goods!” The figure frantically wipes away the scratch on their head with a well-used handkerchief (one tatty corner stamped with ‘DIONYSUS MERC CON’).

“Why haven’t you fixed the cannons yet?” Trottimus points out. “Or are you just lying?”

“Because if Minty knew I fucked Concordia over, she’d hang me!” the figure says in a small voice.

“Fair enough.” Trottimus recalls the surveyor. “Who’re you, by the way?”

“Pyrionflax is the name, all manner of ECHOnet purveying is my game.” Pyrionflax grins, for real this time. “Can I get up now? My knees are hurting.”

“Nah, grovel.” Ross presses a claw to the back of Pyrionflax’s neck. “And you need to mean it!”

“I’m sorry!” Pyrionflax shouts, shivering under the claw.

“That was too easy to be enjoyable,” Ross grumbles, taking away his claw and broom. He mourns the chance that he hadn’t had gotten to use the broom.

“What can I say, I’m a spineless twat who doesn’t like pain,” Pyrionflax supplies, sounding eager now that the three have agreed to help him. “That’s why you three are distracting Minty for me!”

“... _ What _ .” Trottimus, Alsmiffy and Ross glance at each other.

\--

Pyrionflax has gone off to tamper with the circuit; Trottimus had given him some help in the matter. Together, the two had figured out a temporary quick-fix for a fried circuit, cannibalizing Pyrionflax’s set-up in his apartment to do so.

While Pyrionflax had multiple complaints to make about how Trottimus dismantled his precious gear, he shut up in the face of not wanting Ross running off to Minty to let her know about the true culprit behind Concordia's predicament.

Now, the three are trying to figure out how to distract Minty. As far as they know, Minty looks to Bluari for security in Concordia. Being only one person, Bluari couldn’t be everywhere. Ross can tell Trottimus that Minty checks up on Bluari every few hours. The two haven’t figured out that Pyrionflax is the culprit, largely because of Pyrionflax’s useful ability to make himself vanish from any security footage with a few taps of his keyboard.

Thus, distract Bluari and by extension, delay Minty from checking up on Bluari. Trottimus is going to direct operations from Pyrionflax’s apartment since Pyrionflax has feeds linked to every single camera in Concordia.

“It stops bounty hunters from finding me, you see,” Pyrionflax had sweated. “Don't like it when people want to hurt me for being too good at games.”

“You sure it’s not because you fuck with people’s stuff?” Trottimus had commented.

Pyrionflax had shrugged. “It’s the principle of the matter.”

On the main monitor, Trottimus can spy Alsmiffy making his way downtown to Bluari. Making a decision to send Ross or Alsmiffy to Minty had come down to a game of ‘wine or cheese’, the three’s unique take on ‘rock, paper or scissors’.

The way that ‘wine or cheese’ is played is: take turns outdoing one another with stories until one of them failed to respond and the winner got boasting rights until next time.

It’s the only way of settling disputes without a tussle resulting from constant disagreements. Pyrionflax had watched elaborate tale after elaborate tale unfold until Ross had failed to overcome the ‘death by hyper-snuggling’ space bees Alsmiffy had concocted.

It’d been months since Alsmiffy had played ‘wine or cheese’ with Trottimus. Watching Alsmiffy revert back to his old self, even for fifteen minutes, had invoked what felt like ‘guilt’, if only Trottimus hadn’t been so quick to shred it to pieces.

It hadn’t been his own fault that he’s suffering from the traumatic fallout of the incident. He’s lost count as to how many times the force of the anxiety constricts his windpipe, strangling him from within with a rope not of his own making. Nightmare after nightmare links his nights, a daisy chain of a weary Ross helping him to the bathroom so he can dry heave or throw up dinner’s leftovers. 

Trottimus spends those nights ramped up on fear so potent that he’s reduced to a shuddering ball curled up in the corner, lab coat sheltering him from the phantom flames about to devour him. Once the flames subside (and he’s not going to get started on the smell), Ross carries him back to bed, because Trottimus is too exhausted from the ordeal to make it back on his own.

He contemplates what it’d be like to pick up a scalpel and pick apart the folds of his skin with the blade as one would a cloth and a thread ripper.

Only the idea that Ross might break down the nearest therapist’s door and plonk him down in the chair prevents him.

Trottimus knows that there is something deeply fucked up about his subconscious leaking into his life, like a broken lid on a tub of ‘shit that makes Trottimus freak out’.

For the fifteenth time, it’s not gas he’s smelling in Pyrionflax’s apartment. It’s just moonstones marinating in rock polish by the door. A forehead massage holds back the headache from confusing the two smells. One is safe, one is not.

Ross is already at the Captive Creeper. He’s left a short message consisting of: I’m going in, you’re taking too long to respond.

Trottimus curses that he’s spent too long caught up in his own fears to relay a plan to Ross. With a press of a key, the monitor cuts to a camera overlooking the Captive Creeper’s interior.

Wait, why is Ross’ shirt undone to show off the carpet of hair on his chest?

Concordia’s blockade meant a lack of alcohol. Not that it stopped Minty from serving up what dwindling stock she had left, albeit at triple prices for the desperate.

Davechaos is filling out a crossword puzzle in his cage when Ross strides past. “What’s the rush?” The swagman crudely shouts at Ross. Ross ignores the shout to head on over to the bar.

Minty’s seen him coming. Her bartender outfit is identical to her sheriff one, sans the duster coat and the hat. Both are hanging off a hook on the wall behind her. A holster wraps around her chest. In this part of the galaxy, bartenders readily served up bullets and drinks (not necessarily in that order).

Ross in comparison, is dressed as he always is. As Trottimus probably noticed, Ross’ shirt is unbuttoned to provide maximum cleavage. He’d dragged an enterprising hand through his hair to sweep it back; it’d sprang back into shape a few seconds after. While worth a shot, Ross soon dropped that idea. He’s proud that he’d thought of rolling up his sleeves, taking off his jacket and having it thrown over one shoulder made him looking rather dashing.

The look on Minty’s face is one the she wears where she’s not sure whether to throw Ross out on his ass or allow what he’s up to out of boredom.

It’s not everyday that a werewolf decides to seduce her.

Ross leans on the counter. It’s all in the smile; as wide as possible but not so wide as to imply ‘I’m going to rip out your jugular’.

Minty returns the smile with its own cold edge. Smarter people would have bailed out by now. “I warn you, three drink’s the limit, even if you are doing your best to fix the guns.”

“I can assure you that I am indeed, doing my best to fix the guns,” Ross reassures in a low voice that has Trottimus stuffing a knuckle into his mouth to stifle his laugh. Alluring shouldn’t have an inviting growl as an undertone.

“You should be out there then, not in here,” Minty points out as an obvious attempt to get Ross to leave.

“But out there isn’t as interesting as here,” Ross also points out. “Especially when you’re here.”

“Oh, things’ll get real interesting if you keep up that act,” Minty deadpans.

“Who says that this is an act?” Ross bats his eyes at her. A block away, Trottimus is rocking in his chair, thumping the table with one hand since the knuckle stuffing method isn’t enough to stem the laughter.

“Ross, was it?” Minty leans closer, adopting a dry tone. “Your attempt to distract me with sexiness isn’t working.” Only one person comes to mind who’d succeed at that, and without breaking a sweat. Minty waves away the image, not currently needing it.

“Why not? I think I’m a grrrreeat catch,” Ross persists, giving her an obvious wink. 

Trottimus stares up at the ceiling, tears leaking out of the corner of his eye. He misses Alsmiffy exchanging ECHO details with Bluari on the other monitor, and Pyrionflax turning the cannons on and off like it might help his case.

“You're not my type,” Minty bluntly states, her bluntness slashing through Ross’ confidence like a knife on tires. “I like a person who’s less likely to clog up my drain after a shower.” 

The insult about his hairiness slides off Ross’ watertight ego. “If don’t like me hairy, you should see me when I’m shaved,” He says.

“How much did Hollie and Berym pay you to hit on me? I’ll double it if you hit on the two instead.”

“I’m not being paid to hit on you.”

“So, you’re here of your own free will.” Minty casts a glance around the bar. It’s fortunate that nobody else is here to witness this humiliation go down. Davechaos had been smart enough to beat it. Minty can let that slide. “Your friends aren’t here.”

“They’re around,” Ross airily says.

“Run along back to your friends, werewolf, before I get the pitchforks and torches out,” Minty warns. It’s hard to tell if she’s joking.

At that second, Trottimus gets a ping from Pyrionflax that he’s needed down at the cannons. He flags Ross and Alsmiffy to withdraw from their respective situations and head on down as well.

Ross feigns dejection. “What’s your type, then?”

“I’m into mercs that are packing some real heat,” Minty says. Ross can’t tell if she’s seriously joking or not. “By the way, nice try. Trying to seduce me to get a free ticket out of town isn’t going to work.” She taps the holster on her chest. “If you try that again, you’ll be seeing stars.”

“It was worth a try!” Ross hurries out of the bar, glad to be free of his job. One elevator ride later, he, Trottimus and Alsmiffy end up at the cannon that Trottimus had broken into earlier.

“Pyrion!” Trottimus calls out, his hand shoving the door open. The Oz kit debubbles once he steps into the oxygen field. The sound of their oxygen stores replenishing is lost amongst the cacophony of machinery around them.

“Up here!” Pyrionflax’s shout drifts down from up the circular stairs lining the inside of the cannon. The trio head up the stairs, their every step jarred by the machinery under their feet.

In the cannon’s control room, Pyrionflax is bent over a console, typing frantically into it. The wall in front of him is filled with a simple grid overlaying the view of Concordia that the cannon guards.

“What’s that light mean?” Ross squints at one light that’s madly going on and off.

“It means they’re about to bomb us!” Pyrionflax exclaims, both of his hands a blur. “The Hyperion fighters are flying in formation!”

“How long until they get here?” Trottimus is already scanning the grid for the location of the fighters. There, on the horizon, is a fleet of them.

“Twenty minutes!” is Pyrion’s panicky estimate.

“Why isn’t the cannon firing?” Trottimus jabs at the feed from the cannon. It’s fully loaded, ready to fire and nothing is happening.

“It needs a calibration! There’s no time to calibrate it due to my reset taking everything offline!”

“What do we do instead?” Ross panics, his voice going shrill.

“Manually load the cannon!” Pyrionflax brings up a menu of the process. Ross and Alsmiffy study it for a few minutes until Pyrionflax shoves it away. “One of you is going to have to manually control the firing.”

“I’ll do it,” Trottimus volunteers. Pyrionflax leaves his chair, allowing Trottimus to take it. 

“What about you?” Trottimus eyes Pyrionflax. Pyrionflax has a body that’s not made for hard labor or tactical decisions (or ones involving disastrous consequences, that is).

“I’m going to be your targeting system,” Pyrionflax explains. When he looks up, both of his eyes have changed to an electric blue. At the stunned looks on their faces, he thrusts his chest out. “ECHO eyes, bitches.” He picks up a wire, fingers finding a flap on his head and plugs the end into the naked port.

Ross and Alsmiffy hasten downstairs, taking up their positions. Ross grunts as he works the lever to dispense the rounds.

Alsmiffy spawns his gloves to help him handle the heat shield and sinks allowing Trottimus to fire without the cannon overheating. Trottimus adjusts his chair, cracking his knuckles next.

“Here they come!” Pyrionflax warns. Trottimus’ hands direct the joysticks towards the horizon. A flick of his thumb elicits a shudder from the cannon and a sound like someone’s just set off a round of grenades all around him.

“Holy shiiiiitttt!” Alsmiffy shrieks. Five more explosions follow until the monitor flashes ‘cooldown needed’. A wave of intense heat fills the inside of the room.

“Reload!” Trottimus orders, already aiming the cannon at the next lot of Hyperion fighters. He doesn’t dare wipe the sweat from his face, spawning his surveyor to boost his shattered shield.

“If we can destroy a few more, the rest of the cannons that aren’t fried can take down Hyperion fighters using our data!” Pyrionflax shouts, pointing to another incoming wave.

“Screw it, we’re taking down all of them!” With this much destructive power something at his fingertips, Trottimus is feeling unstoppable. He utters the laugh of someone riding the high of power, the cannon shuddering and shaking all around him as he directs it to fire round after round on the fighters.

Half an hour later and partially deaf from the constant cannon fire, Trottimus wobbily rises to his feet. Being partially deaf, he misses the person standing behind his chair.

“Don’t move,” Minty warns. Trottimus puts his hands up at the barrel of a gun pressing into the back of his neck. Behind him, Ross and Alsmiffy are being accosted by Berym, Hollie and Bluari. “You’ve been caught red-handed tampering with the cannons.”

“I reserve the right to remain silent!” Pyrionflax is yelling at the top of his voice, his eyes having returned to normal with no trace of blue whatsoever.

“Yeah,” Trottimus admits without regret.

“You caused a lot of deaths today.”

“That too,” Trottimus concedes.

“As far as I understand, none of those deaths concern Concordia.” Minty holsters the pistol. “I’d say that fulfils your bargain.”

“So, do we get to walk free-”

“Your bounty still stands. You were never here and you’re taking the first shuttle out of Concordia. If you come here again, you’ll be hanged.” Minty tips her hat. It doesn’t hide her cat-like smile of satisfaction.

“Hey! Was a Vault Hunter here recently?” Alsmiffy demands once everyone is outside.

“If by ‘recently’, you mean ‘many years ago’, then yes, there was a Vault Hunter passing through. Or rather, two. They left Concordia empty-handed.” Minty surveys Alsmiffy with mild interest. “You know Rythian and Teep?”

“Yeah, we’re due to catch up. You wouldn’t happen to know where we can find them, would you?” Trottimus has to marvel at Alsmiffy finding the guts to lie to Minty now.

Minty whistles, tapping her fingers against her arm in thought. “I ain’t seen either of them in years and I keep a real close eye on who passes through Concordia.” She nods at Pandora. “I daresay you’d be better off searching there.”

As the trio walk towards the airfield, Bluari sprints after them. “Rythian and Teep left Concordia in a real hurry and Rythian left this behind.” Bluari withdraws a page from their jacket. “If you find Rythian, could you give this back to him?” Trottimus gingerly takes the offered page, unfolding it. ‘NEW VAULT?’ is erratically underlined in runny black ink.

The page is an atrocious mess of more ink, coffee stains, a diagram of a tattooed woman and filled to the margins with a madman’s rambling. It’ll be something to study later. A new gear begins to turn in Trottimus’ head. Thanks, Alsmiffy (or not, if this turns out to be another waste of time).

Trottimus puts the page away, smiling gratefully at Bluari. “Don’t worry, we’ll make sure it gets back to him.” 

The motley group walk back to Concordia to await the shuttle’s arrival. The shuttle touches down on the runway to much applause, crying and cheering. Trottimus, Alsmiffy and Ross watch from balcony as a figure emerges from the shuttle below.

The shuttle’s pilot is a uniformed man with a monocle. Trottimus and Ross spend a few moments having a whispered argument as to whether it’s appropriate to hit on the pilot. Alsmiffy busies with stargazing. 

As Berym chats to Zylus about the repairs he’ll need to make on the cannons, Pyrionflax nonchalantly sidles up to the trio waiting to board. A box of moonstones is shoved into Ross’ hands. Pyrionflax is gone by the time they open their mouths to ask about it. Huh, so Pyrionflax could actually disappear whenever he wanted to.

The note he’d left inside explains that the moonstones can be traded on Pandora for ‘a bit’. It also includes his thanks for ‘keeping quiet’.

“We should tell Minty,” Alsmiffy mutters, watching Zylus unload a crate of charged power cores. 

Trottimus is too busy envying the sight of all those power cores to say anything. Ross is silently checking out Zylus, wondering why Zylus smells sad underneath the lovely traces of proper dust, grease and oil.

It’s almost like the smell Alsmiffy is giving off now.

\--

In T-Bone Junction, the pawnshop is a building crammed between the pharmacy and the sheriff’s office. The journey down to Pandora had been uneventful, minus a minor, upsetting bit of turbulence during and after takeoff due to Concordia’s cannons providing the second round of covering fire for Zylus.

Zylus had maintained a cheerful outlook even as cannon fire came close to decimating the shuttle. 

There’s no sound in space, but the vibrations reverberated all along the shuttle’s hull. Trottimus, Ross and Alsmiffy were reduced to clinging to one another for dear life (with Ross swerving as a hairy buffer between the other two).

Ross swears that he’d seen his life flash before his eyes, whimpering as another soundless explosion rattled the bolts. Zylus simply laughed and moved the shuttle out of harm’s way.

“Easy,” He’d bragged, ignoring the quivering passengers behind him. The three wished for the flight o be over as soon as possible.

It’d been with massive relief (solid ground had never been missed so sorely before) that the three had departed the shuttle as fast as their jellified legs could take them.

Oblivious to their newfound terror of space travel (while being shot at), Zylus had bid them ‘safe travels’.

In the pawnshop, Alsmiffy requests how much the moonstones sell for. The pawn shop owner secures the last customer’s goods in an airtight vault behind the counter.

The previous customer (a lady with blond pigtails and yellow, cat-like eyes) had dropped off a canvas bag of skag pearls. When the bag had been opened, nasty spherical objects gave off a gagging smell akin to rotting eggs left to soak in vinegar for a week filled the shop. 

It’d been the equivalent of a terrific knock to the head for Ross. Ross had almost keeled over. He’s currently propping himself up against the doorway, sucking in lungful of fresh, clean air. Trottimus had sprinted outside to dry heave over the edge of the town.

Alsmiffy had shut off his filters, relying on his Oz kit to dispense untainted air. Immune to the smell afflicting the shop, the pawn shop owner peered at the moonstones through a cracking eyeglass, turning a knobby stone over with tweezers clenched between thumb and forefinger.

“So?” Alsmiffy asks, leaning on the glass counter.

The pawn shop stops their inspection to stare Alsmiffy in the eyes (or right at the lens of Alsmiffy’s gas mask). “These are the real deal, these moonstones,” They grunt, a grubby finger nudging the rock back towards Alsmiffy. “Hard to get ahold of these days, ever since Concordia locked down all mining operations.”

“What’re they good for?” Ross asks, his face returning to its usual hue rather than green like a plant experiencing too much sunshine.

“Good for jewellery. Good for crackpot remedies, good for aquariums once crushed. All sorts of things.” The pawn shop owner shrugs. “I’ll give you…” A hand pawing through their counter’s contents dredges up a calculator with a few buttons missing. A brow furrows in concentration as they input numbers like defusing a ticking bomb. They hold up the calculator, allowing Alsmiffy to squint as he scrutinises the output.

Alsmiffy has to fight to not hyperventilate or froth at the mouth at the amount he’s being shown on the tiny screen.

Ross focuses on trying exceptionally hard to see if he’s feeling abnormal because he’d forgotten about Hollie’s warning about walking around on Pandora with a moon as large as Elpis.

\--

As it turned out, quite a few people had been willing to part with their technical for the right price. The trio are hitting the Pandoran roads for the first time. The sun is shining (with enough intensity to give Ross’ skin a tan if his skin allowed it), they’re in a decent place.

They could all agree to disagree that today is the best day that’s ever happened to them in months. Barring the events preceding it, Alsmiffy could even dare to say that this has the potential to be the best day of his entire life (next to Trottimus figuring out what the gloves stolen from Hyperion did).

Ross is driving, humming along with the custom playlist that’d accumulated music over the years. Previously, removing any track (no matter how shitty or cheesy it is) resulted in an immediate ‘wine or cheese’. It’s gotten to the point that none of the three know what to expect in terms of music. That’s to be expected, since that it’s a shared playlist.

Perhaps giving the other two access to the playlist had been a fatal mistake but whoever had began the tradition gave up on modifying permissions.

Nobody’s added a song in five months. That gives Ross the sole responsibility of digging up new tunes to toss into the disaster of a playlist.

Scanning the crackling radio for new additions nearly causes Ross to miss a figure standing by the side of the road. He cuts the radio to squint at the squat figure rapidly approaching them.

“What do they want?” Trottimus is in the turret, currently gauging the figure with a calculating expression.

“I think they want a lift,” Ross ascertains. Alsmiffy declines to comment, merely watching from the back. The technical draws close enough for them to see what the figure is doing.

The figure’s hand is set in the universal hitchhiker gesture, thumb held high and proud like a fleshy tower, stubby fingers wrapped in a loose fist. The figure’s skin is a shade of grey that Ross associates with ‘a dangerous lack of vitamins’. That’s not the oddest thing Ross can see. Those would be the socks and sandals. The socks are patterned with toy bulldozers. Beaglepuss glasses are perched on a rubbery nub of a nose.

The sandals smell of cigar as Ross pulls up to the figure. Behind the figure is a smoking technical. The smoke is the color of charcoal that’d been left in a fire for too long.

“What do you want?” Ross shouts at the figure, leaning out of the technical. He’s on his way to falling out of the seat. The frame saves him. Driving with a noisy engine’s rendered Ross’ hearing in want of a quiet place. Preferably without engine sounds.

“Got room for one more?” The figure drawls. The unlit cigar underneath their clearly fake, bushy mustache bobs with every word.

“What happened to your ride?” Trottimus shouts from the turret, even if he’s only a metre or so away from the figure.

“I don’t know, I was driving and then kapow, the engine went.” The figure mimes the technical coming to a stop, complete with frantically trying to restart it. “I’d really appreciate it if you helped out a fellow stranger.”

“We’re not a taxi service,” Trottimus notes, mimicking Ross leaning out of his seat. “Maybe if you provided some sort of monetary incentive, perhaps we can change our minds.”

“How much you want?” The figure asks.

“A thousand,” Trottimus bluffs, smirking. There is no way in hell that a hitchhiker would have that kind of dough on them. Ross is grinning, fully prepared to drive off and leave the hitchhiker to choke on their ride’s dust.

A thousand is waved at the three. “This enough?” The figure inquires. The three stare, each of them wondering if the figure is for real.

“Yeah, hop in,” Ross’ mouth blurts before his mind can think to ask for an heftier tip.

The figure’s already climbing into the technical before Trottimus, Ross or Alsmiffy can intervene, flopping down next to Alsmiffy. “Great! Where are we going?” The figure expectantly looks over the three, beaming.

Trottimus and Ross have a split second to share a look of ‘what the fuck’ before Ross decides to continue driving. Don’t question the man who just coughed up a thousand in response to getting picked up.

The busted technical despawns once Ross is out of sight.

\--

Sips is the figure’s name. Needless to say, the first moment that the trio can get to themselves is dogpiled by Trottimus, Alsmiffy and Ross and dragged away.

The three are currently holed up in the motel’s bathroom or rather, crammed in together like those tiny, smelly fish that came in tins (which Trottimus devoted a certain portion of his savings towards, every month). 

To save on space, Trottimus has resorted to standing in the bathtub. He has to be careful not to jiggle any part of himself against the shower’s control panel or douse himself and anybody in a metre’s radius in water. Alsmiffy is perched on the toilet (with the seat folded down, duh), knees pulled up to his chest. Ross opts to lean against the door, doubling as their security measure. 

It’s not a comfortable huddle. As it is with the trio, it could have been lot worse. So, the bathroom will do. The impromptu meeting proceeds with as much dignity as possible when all three people are using various bits of bathroom as furniture. 

Alsmiffy is holding up a pen and clipboard, squeezing both on top of his knees; he’s the designated scribe for today’s meeting. It’s hard to tell who he’s looking all, given how scrunched up he is on the toilet.

“I want his shirt,” Ross says. Alsmiffy’s pen pauses for a moment before he scribbles that down.

“I want his glasses,” Trottimus says. The two glance at Alsmiffy to see what he wants from Sips. Alsmiffy shrugs, almost causing hot water to spray out of the shower head above Trottimus. Trottimus tries to edge away from it (and fails, sputtering somewhat as his hair gets soaked).

“We can’t just rob him, that’s just tasteless,” Ross points out. He can’t help catching sight of himself in the mirror, taking a spare moment to groom his hair with a hand. Alsmiffy declines to add Ross muttering, ‘who’s a good looking boy’ to the record.

“So are you saying we ditch him instead if we don’t want to rob him?” Trottimus asks, having to push past the shower curtain that’s flopping on his new position in the shower (pressed up against the wall, away from further possibility of getting drenched). “Cut him loose and then run once we’re sick of him?” That seems a bit heartless, even for them (and all the stuff the trio usually pulled).

“Basically, yes,” Ross affirms. “Even if he did give us a thousand dollars.” 

The thousand dollars had been handsomely divided up between the three, yet to be spent. It’s not that there’s any rush to splurge, it’s just that none of the three had given any serious thought to the age-old question of ‘what would you do with a million dollars’.

A thousand dollars doesn't quite have the same ring as a million dollars. To them, it might as well be.

They’re typically so pressed for money that the tiniest tip is put away for a rainy day or an emergency (which happened far more often than one would think). Today is a day where the skies opened up and granted one of their wishes: it's raining dolla dolla bills, yo.

And they don’t have the slightest fucking clue as to what to do with it.

“He could have more money stowed away,” Trottimus voices after the lull where he knows that they’ve all daydreamed briefly as to what they’ll all buy with their share of the tip. There’s a surveyor repair kit that he’s been salivating over for the past six months; to get a clue as to how much it costs, the kit is worth a pristine kidney plus a pint of blood.

“So we rob him then,” Ross says, nodding at his reflection (he quite likes how his reflection agrees with him, every single time).

“He’s been awfully chill so far.” Trottimus turns the idea over in his mind. He’s never quite robbed someone before, favoring the art of gentle persuasion using a gun and beating someone's face in if they didn’t hand over all their assets on the spot. 

It’s not like him to have second thoughts now. Unless the doctor had added a conscience to his brain during the reconstructive surgery.

“No, we rob him and  _ then _ ditch him,” Ross corrects. “What do you say to that?”

“I think we should wait and see if he wants anything else,” Trottimus says. “He might tip us again.”

“There’s not much we can do for a guy who’s that loaded,” Ross says with a disappointed sigh. The sigh ruffles the shower curtains. “Except suck up to him.”

“We’re better than that!” Trottimus almost smacks his head into the shower head at Ross suggesting that they grovel for a bit of more cash.

“It’s just an idea.” Ross shrugs, his natural lack of shame showing itself again in his words.

“No, we’re not sucking up to Sips.” Trottimus shoves aside the annoying shower curtain again with a wrinkle of plastic.

Alsmiffy twirls the pen in his hand, surveying the two bickering in front of him. There’s a lot he’d like to say on the matter; he quite liked having Sips around. Sips listened to him with a wholeheartedness that drew Alsmiffy to him.

If Trottimus and Ross have any problem with Alsmiffy speaking to him more than in the past months to them following the ‘I fucked up so badly and now the other two loathe me but can’t get rid of me because I got nowhere else to go’ incident? They’re doing a bang-up job of hiding it.

Hence, Alsmiffy wants to avoid backstabbing Sips. If anything, he hopes that Sips is going to stick around a little while longer. So far, Trottimus and Ross haven’t reached a conclusion as to what to do with Sips.

Alsmiffy tunes back into the conversation at hand as Ross straightens up. Ross is wrinkling his nose like there’s pollen to sneeze at on the breeze. 

“What’s that smell?” His stomach signals its approval of the scent by letting out a loud rumble.

Trottimus sniffs the air, his head swivelling to eye the crack underneath the bathroom door. “That doesn’t smell like my cooking.” The two turn to Alsmiffy with identical accusing looks.

“It wasn’t me,” Alsmiffy says in a bland tone. “I’ve been sitting here with you two the whole time”. He nearly adds, ‘you can also check my gas canisters’ levels’. Using his gloves these days felt like a criminal offense, whenever he catches sight of Trottimus watching him do so.

“Well, I wasn’t cooking earlier. It’s only late morning,” Ross says.

“I was fixing my surveyors,” Trottimus recalls.

And Alsmiffy was busy concocting a half-assed plan to buy Trottimus’ favourite tinned fish snacks, involving nicking Ross’ ECHO device at the first chance and rigging it to buy a whole box of those stinky fish. On second thought, Ross is likely to find out and kick his ass. No idiot, not even Ross, ever leaves their device unattended in the presence of Alsmiffy.

“Is Sips setting the motel on fire?” Alsmiffy muses out loud. There’s a fine difference between the smells of what’s burning and Alsmiffy’s built up a catalogue of smells over the years, given his propensity for playing ‘guess what’s burning’.

It’s a joke. Or it’s supposed to be. The three’s minds jump tracks to to think about the likelihood of Sips doing so, flashing back to a shared memory of Sips removing a pan, oil and ingredients from his inventory and setting up.

It hadn’t been worthy of notice. The three burst out the bathroom like three human-shaped bullets, almost tripping one another up in their haste to make it to the kitchen (and possibly throw themselves out of the window if needed).

In the kitchen, Sips is cooking up chimichangas. “You’re gonna love these,” He brightly says as the three skid to a stop by the stove. “It’s my own recipe with seven secret spices, so grab a chair and pull up for the best breakfast of your fucking lives.”

Alsmiffy adds ‘Sips can cook’ to the list of reasons for why they should keep Sips around.

\--

It’s the dead of the night. The night isn’t that dead like the inside of a morgue. Outside, it’s very much alive, if one looked closely enough at it. If one had X-Ray vision and squinted, indeed, in the motel’s living room, three figures are seated around a table. The table’s been cleared of all clutter and decorations, leaving its surface bare. 

A map of Opportunity rises from the grainy wood, rotating to show off every provocative angle. Blue buildings litter the temporary landscape, including stand-ins for the isolated city’s decorations. The light cast by the map lends a sophisticated, secretive atmosphere to the room, which is exactly what Trottimus wants when conducting a planning session.

Ross and Alsmiffy secretly think that it makes him look like he’s just smeared blue make-up all over his face. Or had a nasty incident with blueberries. 

The two keep their mouths shut, knowing that Trottimus rarely gets a chance to bust out his surveyor’s multi-functional setup outside of ‘inflict bodily distress via electricity’. Let the poor man have his excitement.

“My surveyor was able to sneak into the city,” Trottimus explains with a smug voice, sending a representative picture floating into the shield protecting Opportunity. “They still don’t recognise foreign surveyors.”

“Where’s the bank?” Ross impatiently interrupts. A finger jabs at the map, sending it spinning clockwise.

Trottimus slows it with a finger. “Don’t touch the map!” He snaps.

“Sorry,” Ross says in a tone that indicates that he is not sorry. “I thought we were planning a heist?” 

It’d been Alsmiffy’s original idea. If they can’t (and won’t) rob Sips, then a bank is the next best option. Besides, it’s been a while (six months, to be exact) since they last did any robbing so it’s the perfect chance to exercise those particular muscles. It’s surprising in the first place that Pandora had banks, let alone dentists. May Pandora’s wonders never cease to amaze, let alone in the way of mundane human innovations.

“We are, if you’d just shut up and listen.” Trottimus’ retort earns an offended look from Ross.

“Well, get to it, we don’t have all night,” Ross responds, glaring at Trottimus over the top of the ‘SIPSCO.’ building. The glow makes his glare more menacing than it really is. It’s like a puppy trying to be a wolf, really.

“In case you forgot, this planet has a cycle of…”

It’s probably Alsmiffy’s imagination but the door to the room whispers open, then shut. He’s too busy prodding a Loader into place to see what it’ll do to a miniature version of himself. Before he can watch himself die, a drawl from behind his chair makes him jump out of his skin.

“Are you planning a heist?” Sips leans over the table. The lovely smell of hot chocolate permeates the room. When it did, the three don’t know, too engrossed in the conversation to notice someone sneaking in.

Trottimus cuts the holograms to stare at Sips, his mouth hanging open. They hadn’t expected Sips to rise before the crack of dawn; to be honest, they’d expected Sips to be the kind of person to lay around in bed until noon presented itself and coughed to get his attention.

“I want in, it looks cool,” Sips continues, oblivious to the alarmed looks being thrown his way. Trottimus privately signals to Ross to put his hand down. Ross lowers his hand, albeit reluctantly, throwing a look of ‘why not’ to Trottimus.

“You can’t join us, you’ll just be a nuisance-” Trottimus tries to dissuade him, pretending to fiddle with his surveyor’s wing. The surveyor vibrates under his touch as his fingertips ghost over an edge. Where’s a lint-free cloth when he needed one?

“If it’s guns you need, I got guns alright,” Sips goes on like he hasn’t heard Trottimus’ objection, digistructing a loot chest. 

The table bows underneath the weight of the item, all four legs about to splay out. Sips unlocks the chest to reveal enough weaponry to arm a bandit camp and have enough left over for bandits to start fighting amongst themselves over the spares.

A green blur is the only warning Trottimus and Ross get before Alsmiffy is already digging through the contents, helping himself to anything that promises him a good time (and a bad time for everyone else). Trottimus and Ross elbow him aside to have their pick, resulting in a tussle over a promising looking SMG.

“You don’t even use SMGs!”

“I do now and you already have enough in your inventory, you greedy fuck!”

“You two can’t handle SMGs like I can!” Wine or cheese settles who gets it. Alsmiffy and Trottimus slink back to the chest to peruse the leftovers, individually sulking over Ross’ ingenious use of ass-dancing to seduce a bear out of eating his face off.

“So, do I get to go on the heist?” Sips looks at them with an expectant quirk of his eyebrows (his real ones). A cigar is dripping ash onto the carpet, camouflaging itself amongst the coarse fibres. The image is ruined by Sips sipping from his mug (which says ‘Number #1 CEO’ in neon pink letters).

“Yes,” Trottimus tries to say in a neutral tone and fails because he’s clutching another SMG to his chest.

“Sure,” Ross agrees.

“Definitely,” Alsmiffy adds.

“I also got disguises for each of us,” Sips reveals, blowing out a cloud of smoke with a razor-sharp smile. 

He could never ignore missing out on people planning secret stuff behind his back (or else how could he have survived being CEO all this time).

\--

“This mask is amazing!” Ross’ muffled voice bumps into the walls of his wolfman mask before managing to find the slit near the mouth and squeeze out, with a relieved sigh. The others can barely hear him through their own enclosed masks.

Through the tinted eyeholes punched into the mask, Ross can glimpse a saber-toothed creature bob its head, nodding in agreement.

On Ross’ left is a green figure with blurry humanoid features (like looking at melted wax) juggling fireballs. Nobody knows what Alsmiffy’s mask is supposed to be, not even Sips, who’d ordered the custom-made mask. Sips had misplaced the receipt. Well, Alsmiffy still loved it to pieces, even if it means he has to wear a mask over a mask.

“Double the protection,” Alsmiffy had claimed in a voice that almost rumbled, earning a snort from Sips.

Sips’ mask is a bat with enormous pointy ears and enough fake teeth to rival Ross’ grin. 

“Check out what it can do,” Sips brags, unhinging the mask’s jaws so that the trio can almost make out his pleased face through the opening. Black cloth lines the interior, shrouding Sips’ face in near darkness. “I can shove a whole fist in here, check it out!” He proceeds to demonstrate.

“What else can you shove in there?” Ross asks with a straight face. 

Sips moves his hand back and forth, eventually extracting it to dip into a crinkled bag by his side. “Lots of potato chips.” A lone potato chip bravely enters the void around Sips’ face. Munching noises ensue.

“Are you eating the snacks early?” Trottimus is offended that Sips is suffering from the munchies. It’s only been half an hour since the heist began.

“Look, planning a heist takes a lot of brain energy,” Sips retorts between munches. Trottimus declines to point out that all Sips had done was play outfit designer, scout and arms dealer; all the actual planning had been heaped onto Trottimus and Ross (with Alsmiffy being far too busy enthusiastically roping Sips into stakeouts). “Unless you got any orange slices to hand out, wise guy?”

Trottimus declines to say that he does have orange slices on him but if that’s the attitude Sips is going to take, Trottimus is going to hog all the slices. He pops one into his mouth, hunching lower in the hallway.

The surveyor is making its final rounds around the bank. The live feed is confirming what Ross, Alsmiffy and Sips had reported on their numerous scouting runs. Security guards consist of Loaders posted inside the bank. The bank itself is constructed out of glass, as is everything in Opportunity.

If it’s as Trottimus suspects, the glass repels bullets, so no shooting unless absolutely necessary. It’s a double-edged sword for both security and them.

“No shooting,” Trottimus warns the three. To his chagrin, Alsmiffy, Sips and Ross have broken into the snacks container and are helping themselves and disregarding the carefully planned snack break.

“We got hungry too,” Ross sheepishly explains.

“You mean,  _ you _ got hungry, I’m just doing my own thing,” Sips corrects. “Stop copying me!”

“You mean,  _ you _ got hungry, I’m just doing my own thing,” Ross mimics, doing his best to lower his voice to Sips’ gravelly drawl. It makes him sound like he’s speaking around a mouthful of nuts. “Stop copying me!”

“No, you stop copying me!”

“No, you stop copying me!”

“No,  _ you  _ stop copying me!”

“No,  _ you  _ stop copying me!”

“I’m a big baby.”

“I’m a big baby.”

“I’m a big baby with a big butt to match.”

“I’m a big baby with a big butt to match.”

“You’re a big baby with a big butt to match.”

“You’re a big baby with a big butt to match.”

“Trottimus, make him stop!”

“Trottimus, make him stop!”

“Trottimus, make them both stop, it’s driving me fucking nuts!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Trottimus shouts, upsetting his laptop. He catches it by the edge, causing it to fold out like a wet newspaper with the pages flapping apart. 

The surveyor returns through the door, hovering besides Trottimus. Its eye fixes upon the other three. Trottimus resets his laptop onto his lap, eyeing his team up with irritation. They’re all adults (but  _ adults  _ who found a little too much delight in wearing masks and planning a heist, complete with acting out dramatic lines and roleplaying).

Silence is chased off by the sound of Trottimus clearing his throat. “Alright, when you’re done being pigs-”

Ross lets out a loud burp, causing Sips to giggle. Sips giggling is not a sound that Trottimus wants to ever hear again in his entire life, not if he wants to sleep soundly. His mind blanks that moment out for eternity (until his subconscious wants to torture him).

“Excuse me,” Ross says in a posh accent. “Where are my manners?”

“We’re going to storm the bank,” Trottimus belatedly finishes, tapping a few buttons. Pyrionflax’s message notifies him that the security feed is temporarily disabled and that the Loaders will find themselves non-responsive. The clock’s ticking. 

It’s now or never.

“Wait, how are we doing this?” Sips eagerly asks as he follows Trottimus, Ross and Alsmiffy out from behind their hiding spot. The four approach the bank with guns held up, heads held high (only because the masks would fall off otherwise or tilt awkwardly and that just doesn’t look good).

“Oh, you know,” Trottimus begins, pushing the door open and holding it that way.

“Like how we usually do,” Ross continues, stepping into the bank, only to let Alsmiffy pass.

“In style,” Alsmiffy grandly finishes, striding past Ross to fire his SMG into the air. “EVERYBODY GET ON THE FUCKING FLOOR NOW OR YOU GET SHOT!” Bullets bring down the skylight.

Panicking from the shattered skylight, people throw themselves down onto the floor. Paperwork, briefcases, pens or whatever they’d been holding rain onto the floor.

“What’s wrong with the Loaders?” Someone screams. 

And here is why the four chose to rob Opportunity: people relied far too much on Loaders to have ever hired human security guards to patrol. Humans are expensive. Loaders are not. Loaders are also easily disabled, as Pyrionflax demonstrated by taking them offline with a well-placed blow to their local command centre.

Security in Opportunity won’t pick up on the bank being robbed since Pyrionflax is feeding the cameras a pre-recorded loop of a heist-free Opportunity. It won’t last forever, only as long as it takes for security to catch on.

“Oh, I get it!” Sips cheerfully blasts an ugly statue (of Opportunity’s previous owner) to pieces with his shotgun. The bullets ricochet to bury themselves into the ground like spiderants detecting the first hint of rain.

“That’s the spirit!” Ross encourages, vaulting over the counter. People shy out of his path like a skittish shoal of fish avoiding an apex predator sporting too much teeth and a bite to match.

Someone is trying to call for help. Not smart. Ross knocks them down with a blow from his shotgun, gesturing to the floor. 

“That’s it, lie down and pretend that it’s all a dream,” He whispers as the person whimpers, rubbing at their bruised face. His eyes flick to the tag on their shirt. “Hey, where’s all the goods kept?”

The person opens their mouth. No sound leaves it. Ross thrusts his face into their own, or as close as the mask allows without him hitting their forehead. “Maybe this will help you remember, eh?” The barrel of the shotgun nudges them in the chin.

Unable to speak, the person raises a trembling hand to point to the back room. “The stuff’s in the back room!” Ross reports, rising from his terrorizing of a bank teller.

Trottimus looks up from his pilfering of all the animal pins he can find on people’s belongings. He throws away a genuine rakk hive skin handbag, stuffing the pins into his inventory. The pins are worth more (and the handbag would clash with his lab coat). 

His surveyors are circling like rakks hungering for roadkill overhead. It’s a risk to have all three surveyors out, at the pro of added watchers.

Sips is looting the fountain of all its change, water splashing out of the sides. “I’ve always wanted to nick change from the fountain!” Well, Trottimus is glad someone is enjoying this.

Alsmiffy is joining Ross in the back room to empty all the caches that they can find. It’s the first time that they’ve been properly alone, without Trottimus possibly walking in on them.

What can Alsmiffy say? As he’d figured out long ago, ‘sorry’ won’t cut it. 

He’s aware that his fingers are prying open a jewellery box to loot the shielded skag pearl necklace stored inside. The necklace rattles as it collides with someone’s space diamond engagement ring. Loot box (break lock using heat or force), empty it out into bag, move onto next box. Trust Trottimus to have their backs if security’s aware of the robbery.

Sips drifts in to stickybeak through the loot. “Talk about fancy,” He comments, holding up someone’s underwear made out of solid gold. “That’s got to chafe.” It goes into his inventory. “I bet it’ll fit with a bit of trimming.”

“You can sew?” Ross boggles at him over the top of a sack beginning to regurgitate its contents.

“I sewed my own shirt,” Sips proudly says.

“I wanted your shirt when we first met,” Ross admits.

“You do?” Sips peers down at his own shirt like he’s never seen it before, let alone having someone else compliment it. Ross can feel Sips giving him a considering look. “I can make you one, if you want.”

For a reason that Alsmiffy can’t describe, Sips offering to make Ross his own dollar bill shirt bothers him like an unlooted ammo crate does. Alsmiffy busies with snatching up all the loot he can get his hands on. Noise and distracting himself equals covering up the sound of Ross and Sips’ conversation and wanting to throw the boxes at their heads.

\--

The rakk ale that Sips provides goes right to the head. Alsmiffy’s not a drinker. That doesn’t mean he didn’t mind the occasional indulgence. When he drinks, it’s go hard or not at all. Hence, two hours post-heist, Alsmiffy is smashed to pieces.

In a shitty hotel on the edge of a random town they’d fled to, Alsmiffy contemplates throwing himself over the balcony railing. Would they miss him? Or are they busy cosying up to Sips to notice? 

Sips, Trottimus and Ross are dancing to one of the trashier songs on the shared playlist. Trottimus’ surveyor is propped up on a chair, providing a variety of flashing colored lights. Alsmiffy had joined in on the dancing, up until the chorus where they wouldn’t notice his absence once he ducked out midway during the song.

They’re even posing themselves in time to the lyrics. The raucous singing pushes every semblance of silence out of the room. Trottimus proceeds to hit all the high notes, Ross and Sips filling in the rest on the lower end. He should have been adding his voice. 

“I’m milking in the air-” Trottimus warbles, clutching a lamp like a microphone. Confetti dangles off his head like a rainbow, stringy wig. Ross and.Sips provide the backing beat, hands raised to their mouths to beatbox together.

It sickens Alsmiffy.

For the millionth time that week, he wants to bash his head against the wall for being a stupid fucking idiot who’s a slave to his malicious impulses. At the back of his mind, the impulses stalk up and down (hungry for a gap) the barbed wire fence separating them from conscious thought leading to action.

Locking up his own impulses felt like betraying a core part of himself; for as long as he’s ever lived, his impulses had never encountered any resistance. And if any had cropped up, Alsmiffy made damn sure that his impulses won.

Over time, his impulses took priority over other people’s well being and his own judgement. His beaten consciousness is finding solid ground to stretch out. It’s not going back to the place where it’d been ignored for so long, not without a mighty fight.

Without the gas mask on, Alsmiffy can feel the air, properly, on his skin since setting foot on the planet. Pandora isn’t the most humid of places, lending the breeze a dry and scratchy quality that left his lungs wanting to be scrubbed clean with bleach and a wire sponge.

Funny, he should be indoors right now, dozing on top of Ross and making sure Trottimus isn’t freaking out. The party happening behind him is putting a stop to that.

Alsmiffy generally woke at the same time as Trottimus’ night scares, thanks to his own imposed vigilance. If Ross thinks he’s been waking in time to help out with the fits, he’s wrong. Alsmiffy’s been prodding Ross awake the second he can hear Trottimus’ breathing spike into ‘hyperventilation’. Faking indifference once Ross sloped off to help Trottimus out ate at Alsmiffy like rust on iron camping next to an ocean.

Alsmiffy can then sleep, knowing he made a difference. It’s one so slight when cast next to all the other dress but one that’s significant (to him, at least).

Sleeping so late and waking early meant his energy reserves are lacking, cutting into his inclinations to misbehave. No doubt that the other two have seen this as a massive improvement.

The glass door recedes with a thunk to scare jumpier, less attentive people. Alsmiffy doesn’t bother to turn his head to see Sips step out. He’s shirtless, with a fluffy white (and monogrammed, how  _ fancy _ ) towel thrown over both shoulders. For a man who had to stand on his tiptoes to whisper to Alsmiffy, Sips gave Ross a run for his money in the sculpted shoulders department.

A cigar yet to be lit up dangles from his fingers. Barefooted, Sips sashays over to the balcony, effectively joining Alsmiffy. Water drips over the side from Sips’ wet hair. The beaglepuss glasses are still hiding Sips’ face. From the side with all the shadows in the way, Alsmiffy can barely make out the features he’s hiding.

“Got a light?” Sips easily asks.

“Yeah.” Alsmiffy spawns a glove on his left hand, snapping his fingers. A flame that could have passed for a candle is lifted to the end of the cigar. An intrusive thought lunges at the fence, the wire keeping it back. Setting Sips on fire won’t accomplish anything; hasn’t Alsmiffy already learned that lesson the hard way?

The aroma of smoked wood fills the air as Sips takes a long puff of the cigar. He exhales, releasing a fragrant cloud of smoke into the night. “Thanks.” Alsmiffy considers leaving Sips alone on the balcony. “You didn’t join in on the dancing and singing,” Sips observes. His breath smells of alcohol too. 

Somewhere, Ross and Trottimus are arguing over who’s having the rest of the leftover takeout.

Alsmiffy puts down the rakk bottle on the balcony railing, largely so he’s not going to hurl it at Sips for making a simple observation that hit him hard. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“You can’t just spend the night drinking out here all by yourself,” Sips says, pausing to inhale and exhale on his cigar. “You’re missing out.”

“I can if I want to,” Alsmiffy maintains in his best neutral tone.

“Yeah, but that’s no fun.” Sips languidly turns his head to take in Alsmiffy’s face. 

Another thing the old Alsmiffy would never do is this: take off the gas mask in the presence of a stranger. Sips isn’t exactly a stranger, standing with hands on his hips. He’s a generous, mysterious benefactor and temporary companion who knew too many puns about dirt. On the other hand, this idiot’s picked up on the fact that Alsmiffy is not behaving like himself.

Before him, Sips sees a man who is punishing himself more than he needs to, even if he thinks he deserves it. He’s not oblivious to the way Trottimus and Ross are keeping Alsmiffy at an arm’s length. Contempt stains every interaction between the three. 

Sometimes, Sips glimpses that the three once shared an unbreakable bond. Whatever had happened had twisted it to breaking point. It’ll take serious work to hammer it back to the way it was but it’ll never be the same.

Sips preferred keeping his nose out of other people’s personal business. Know about it but don’t intervene; his nose is fine where it is. This should have been none of his beeswax.

On the other hand, Alsmiffy’s cold shoulder after he’d offered to make Ross a shirt of his own hadn’t been overlooked.

“You jelly?” Sips asks Alsmiffy with a bluntness that could have made human resources yank their all their hair out and sound the alarm for damage control.

“Jelly?” Alsmiffy’s tone is practically rife with incredulity. Sips thinks it’d be a lovely burnt red. “Hah,  _ no _ .” The denial adds a green. Green and red make...on second thought, fuck the color wheel. Rule of thumb: keep it simple, stupid (especially when metaphors are involved). “What do I have to be  _ jelly  _ about?” Alsmiffy’s bitterness would be brown.

“You’ve been avoiding me since we got back.” The cigar waggles in Sips’ mouth. It usually got a laugh from Alsmiffy. Not this time.

“Well, with a face like that, it’s hard not to,” Alsmiffy retorts. He’s not over how Sips had dragged the elephant out into the open like it’s nothing. Other people would have worked up to it. Sips just rolled up his sleeves and took the plunge.

“My face is pretty chiseled,” Sips shamelessly says, grinning. “If you want to look this hot, I know a spa that does great discounts on-”

“If you’re implying that my face needs a makeover, it doesn’t.”

“How you thought about tanning? It could really bring out your skin tone.” Sips laughs. “Didn’t work for me, but you three could give it a shot.”

“I'm not going to a fucking spa with Trott and Ross,” Alsmiffy says. “They’d probably get kicked out and we’d end up torching the place.” Well, more like Ross and Alsmiffy offend the staff by being idiots. Trottimus would have accepted the spa offer by now. It seemed like his kind of thing.

There’s a lot of ‘would have’ and ‘should be’ mixed in with the current issue. That’s not helping.

“So you wouldn’t, but they’d be down for it?”

“If you’re thinking of offering to buy us a spa treatment, you can take it and shove it up your ass.” Alsmiffy’s hand slams on the balcony. He disguises how it hurts him more than it hurts the railing, his palm throbbing painfully. “We can’t be  _ bought. _ ” Hired, yes, but not bought.

To Sips’s credit, Sips simply remains calm. “That’s not why I'm offering.”

Alsmiffy frowns. He starts to laugh once it really occurs to him what Sips is doing, “If you’re trying to buy your way being my friend, you can fucking stop. That’s just  _ pathetic _ .”

“Only because you don’t seem to get along with Trottimus and Ross,” Sips drawls.

Alsmiffy’s laughter ceases. “What makes you think I don’t get along with them?”

“You don’t talk much when they’re around.”

“I talk plenty-”

“Only when they’re gone and it’s just me.”

“That doesn’t mean-”

“What’d you do to piss them off?”

“...I set Trottimus on fire and almost killed him.” Alsmiffy clings to the balcony, breathing hard through his nose to stop the hatred and guilt from taking over. “Yeah, that’s right, I almost killed one of my best friends by being a giant fucking twat. Happy now?”

“Saying sorry usually helps,” Sips says after a profound pause.

Alsmiffy peers at him. If they’re playing ping pong, Sips has just smashed the ball beyond the court. What’s he playing at? “How the  _ fuck _ do you say ‘sorry, I set you on fire’?” The biting sarcasm Alsmiffy spits earns a lazy smile from Sips.

“I’m just saying that it’s worth a shot, especially if you mean it.”

“It isn’t! My saying ‘sorry’ is only going to make them hate me even more!” Because some tiny part of Alsmiffy won’t ever mean the apology, believing that Trottimus deserved every second of pain.

“They’re still keeping you around.”

“Only because I got nowhere else to go and they’re feeling sorry for me.” Alsmiffy has only two friends and they both hate him.

“Do you really think all that?”

“Yeah, I do.” Alsmiffy slumps on the railing, a hand dangling over the edge. “What’s it to you?”

“I want to help.” The earnest look Sips is giving him makes Alsmiffy want to glass him in the face. He despawns the bottle next to him.

“You can’t help.” Alsmiffy pauses, long enough to pick up his gas mask. “Sooner or later, I’m finished.”

“It ain’t over until the fat lady sings.”

“Drop it, Sips,” Alsmiffy warns, an empty threat. There’s no way he’s going to hit Sips, not without causing a commotion. Unfortunately, Sips knows.

“You know, Trottimus was eyeing up a bottle of moisturiser earlier by the gift shop.” Sips slides a business card onto the table, all casual nonchalance. “Then he saw the price tag and boy, did he look away fast. It costs about three hundred. Two hundred, if you apply a CEO’s discount.” Alsmiffy stares at the card Sips takes his hand away from. “Giving a present helps if you suck with words.”

Sips strides back into the apartment, leaving the card on the table.

After a long moment, Alsmiffy retrieves the card, dumbly staring after him.

\--

\- / / SherlockHulmes is now typing. / / -

SherlockHulmes: You’re probably not going to ever respond but the bank manager wants to thank you for your incredibly generous donation.

SherlockHulmes: I’m going to be up to my ears in paperwork for  _ two months  _ processing all these damage charges.

SherlockHulmes: Pretending to be part of a  _ heist _ ?

SherlockHulmes: Do you have any idea how expensive all that tempered glass is?

SherlockHulmes: Security’s up in arms about the Loaders going down and the cameras aren’t showing us anything.

SherlockHulmes: It’s a good thing that people thought it was all a publicity stunt.

SherlockHulmes: But you and I know otherwise.

SherlockHulmes: The paperwork proves it.

SherlockHulmes: Normal people just go to the beach or something. 

SherlockHulmes: Why do you have to do this, Sips?

SherlockHulmes:  _ Why did you have to be in a heist? _

SherlockHulmes: Why do you have to go on a tour of Pandora?

SherlockHulmes: I’d like a heads-up if you’re planning more things like this in the future.

SherlockHulmes:  _ Please _ .

SherlockHulmes: Have a little mercy for your poor, overworked secretary.

\- / / SAVE MESSAGE? / / -

\- / / MESSAGE NOT SAVED. / / -

\--

\- / / CamBuckland is no longer idle. / / -

CamBuckland: Hey.

CamBuckland: This is going to sound awkward.

CamBuckland: But I really need some advice.

SherlockHulmes: What appears to be the problem?

EloraGalanodel: We’re listening.

LobenTrogdor: Cam, you have our undivided attention.

CamBuckland: Let’s say you have a friend.

CamBuckland: The friend did something terrible to you.

CamBuckland: You don’t want to forgive them.

CamBuckland: Ever.

CamBuckland: But you know they want to apologise.

CamBuckland: Except you’ll never get an apology out of them because they’re a dipshit.

CamBuckland: And even if they did apologise, you still want to break their nose.

Falk: Gosh almighty, that sounds terrible.

TrellimarAleath: That’s.

TrellimarAleath: Is this related to you being in the hospital for a while?

CamBuckland: Yeah.

CamBuckland: I’m fine now but I still want to punch their face with a crowbar every single time I see them.

Falk: And you live with them?

EloraGalanodel: I’m very sorry to hear that, Cam.

SherlockHulmes: Can’t say I know how to give you the best advice on how to deal with that.

SherlockHulmes: If you had a horrible boss, I’d be more helpful.

SherlockHulmes: Sorry I can’t be of more help.

CamBuckland: It’s alright.

CamBuckland: I’m just sick of feeling this way.

EloraGalanodel: I’m not going to tell you to let go of hating someone.

EloraGalanodel: Someone ran over me with a Stingray and broke my leg once.

LobenTrogdor: Uh.

LobenTrogdor: Wow.

CamBuckland: I remember something about that years ago.

EloraGalanodel: And I had to run into them at work constantly.

EloraGalanodel: It was really awkward.

EloraGalanodel: They kept apologising which just got annoying?

TrellimarAleath: You had this look on your face like you were about to break their leg if they apologised one more time.

EloraGalanodel: Ssshh, Trell, I wanted to but it wouldn’t have helped the situation.

EloraGalanodel: I scored free lunch for three months though.

EloraGalanodel: I suggest sitting down and hearing them out at least.

EloraGalanodel: That’s pretty reasonable.

EloraGalanodel: That way you can’t say that you never heard what they had to say before you wreck them :)

TrellimarAleath: If you don’t like what they say, you can just walk away.

EloraGalanodel: That’s coming from the guy who wanted to glass someone for denting your Stingray.

TrellimarAleath: It cost  _ twenty  _ bucks to fix that dent!

TrellimarAleath: That’s the same as a season pass!

Falk: Well, if you want to break bones, that’s your call.

Falk: Just make sure that you’re prepared to live with it.

Falk: Nothing’s worse than going from being furious to guilt 90/7.

Falk: Depending on how you measure time on your world.

Falk: There’s no right or wrong.

CamBuckland: I know there’s no right or wrong decision.

LobenTrogdor: I second what Elora’s saying.

CamBuckland: Oh no, he’s coming into the room.

CamBuckland: Bbl.

EloraGalanodel: Good luck!

SherlockHulmes: ^ What she said.

Falk: ^ What he said.

LobenTrogdor: ^ What he said.

TrellimarAleath: ^ What they said.

EloraGalanodel: You were all waiting for me to say it first, didn’t you? :T

LobenTrogdor: >>

SherlockHulmes: >>

Falk: >>

TrellimarAleath: >>

\- / / CamBuckland is now idle. / / -

Over the top of the laptop, Trottimus spies Alsmiffy sidle into the room. Alsmiffy’s dressed in his best suit. 

Mind, his best suit is the one that’s not falling apart to bits. The suit doesn’t get much opportunity to be aired out; Alsmiffy only ever bust it out for the fancier events. It also has a stiffness that makes it look like Alsmiffy’s walking around with a plank jammed up his backside between his jacket and waistcoat.

On Pandora, there’s no particular reason also to why Alsmiffy would deliberately submit himself to dressing up. He slithered out of every formal event like a thresher encountering a hunting party.

When Trottimus puts his finger on why Alsmiffy’s appearance is bothering him, his eyes have traveled to the other’s face, taking in the lack of a gas mask. A lean face starting to tan and eyes bordered by dark rings so heavy that it seems like Alsmiffy’s eyes have sunken in stare back at Trottimus.

Alsmiffy rolls on the balls of his feet, both of his hands tucked behind his back. Standing tall and proud, rather than slouching. That’s the third inconsistency Trottimus notes. 

It could be an imposter standing before him. The Quick Change Stations do have an exploitable glitch. Alsmiffy is not Pyrionflax, lacking a basic comprehension of programming outside of smacking a computer to make it do his bidding if it refused to comply (ha, like how he approached everything else in life; with force).

The fastest way to deal with an imposter would be to zap him and overload the disguise chips. Trottimus’ hand feels for the digistruct module in his lab coat pocket, the curved edge settling against his palm.

His gut reports that it is Alsmiffy standing before him. A conflict between a months old impulse and logic swamps his brain.

“What do you want?” Trottimus’ voice cuts through the air, removing whatever pretense Alsmiffy is here for.

Alsmiffy lets his walk speak for him, long legs taking him over to the table where Trottimus is situated. There’s only a few metre separating the two. Alsmiffy walks like he’s headed towards a death sentence, back straight and head held high. His hands remain behind his back.

His eyes never leave Trottimus’ face. Eyes not quite dead, but not here either. 

All around them, the ambience is reduced to the shallow breaths Trottimus are taking. Alsmiffy’s breathing is reduced to one for every two that Trottimus takes. A creak of a floorboard announces a shift in Alsmiffy’s posture- a surveyor spawns behind Alsmiffy, primed to fire. Engines kick up a layer of dust, sending it upwards.

Eyes flick to the way Trottimus has edged away from him, arms set in a defensive posture. Trottimus despises how he’s let a sliver of panic seep into his expression. Hates how Alsmiffy still has that effect on him. Loathes how he can’t help but want to leave the room. Despises Alsmiffy’s deadened gaze.

Good behaviour isn’t going to let the fucker off the hook.

Alsmiffy’s hand conjures a tiny bottle. Its edge meets the wood with a surprisingly soft thud as it’s set down. The thud resonates through Trottimus like a lightning strike meeting a rod.

Moisturiser.

He hasn’t used moisturiser in months, not since. Not since. A swallow almost removes the hideous lump of saliva that’s gathered at the base of his tongue. Alsmiffy’s hand departs from the bottle. The bottle sits between them, an innocent bystander, in all of this.

A mouth moves, cracked lips peeling back with a hint of teeth.

“I’m sorry,” Alsmiffy croaks. Like a drawn bowstring snapping from too much tension held for far too long, Alsmiffy’s entire being collapses in on itself.

Footsteps follow the edge of the table towards Alsmiffy. Kneeling before Trottimus, Alsmiffy awaits his fate.

“I could kill you now,” Trottimus voice is a deliberate whisper, a cold susurration barely audible over the sound of Alsmiffy’s pulsing heartbeat. 

A hand jerks Alsmiffy up by the tie, grasping roughly at the silk. Alsmiffy almost gags, the knot of his tie shoving up against his windpipe. Briefly, stars flash.

Alsmiffy nods.

“Ross would let me.”

He knows.

“You don’t even deserve a funeral.”

Giving him one is too generous.

“We already picked out a place for your body. I don’t even think skags would touch your corpse.”

Get it over with already.

The lack of a hand clamped around his tie sends Alsmiffy sprawling onto the floor. He stops his back from meeting the floor entirely. Splinters jab into his hand.

The surveyor wobbles in the air behind him, teetering on the edge of existence. It floats to the floor, its engine deactivated. 

“Just don’t do it again.” Trottimus’ back is turned to him. The look on Trottimus’ face is one that Alsmiffy finds solace in. “Just once is enough.”

The two find each other as Alsmiffy begins to bawl in silence, resting his head on top of Trottimus’ shoulder. Trottimus sighs, his sigh containing every wretched feeling and thought he’s ever had about Alsmiffy and himself.

Just beyond the doorway, Ross glances at Sips. Tears running down Ross’ face. Sips taps his cigar free of ash, puffing away to hide a smile for a job well done.

“You three are headed west, right?” There’s no time like the present to tell the trio that he’s got other plans in store for his next venture. 

As fun as traveling with the three is, Sips knows that it’s high time to part with these three magnificent bastards. 

Something in his bones tells him that it has to be this way. It’s a hunch that Sips can’t ignore, like the one about the note he’d left in his kitchen before taking off to tour Pandora.

\--

Set for vehicle, set for funds, set for connections, set for weapons and set for whatever Pandora throws at them, the trio meander westwards. Alsmiffy’s interest in life returns to him, day by day, a progression that erases the exhaustion on his face.

Sometimes he rides shotgun when Trottimus is driving, his gas mask tugged up to lift his head to the sky. It also means he almost suffers sunburn; Trottimus makes it a point to offer him the moisturizer. Alsmiffy reluctantly smears it all over his face, almost shy about using the same moisturiser he’d gifted Trottimus.

Ross is over the moon with their mended relationship. The two put his blubbering, emotional bouts down to relief over having to stop being the middleman. Bah, Ross is just glad that his two best friends are finally talking to one another again.

Alsmiffy and Trottimus approach reconciliation as they would knowing that a bear trap hidden in a field of tall grass.

Talking happens in stages, filled in with gaps of silence no longer awkward, instead suffused with comfortable periods of drinking in each other’s company.

Between the bounty hunters aiming for the bounty on their heads, shaking down Vault Hunters (old or new), murdering bandit gangs finding fault over the three’s trespassing, there’s not really any downside to their traveling.

Except for the one time Ross expresses his dissatisfaction over having to camp after Alsmiffy tangled with a Goliath. Alsmiffy is curled up in the back of the technical, an ice bag chilling on his arm. 

As it turns out, helmetless Goliaths and fire went together like chilli sauce and fermented thresher bits did.

Trottimus isn’t that worried; the hit Alsmiffy had taken isn’t life-threatening. They’ve all experienced their fair shares of worse injuries and spills. Alsmiffy’s stopped griping, choosing to sleep it off.

Still, Trottimus had added extra ice to the bag before tossing it at Alsmiffy. Things are about as good as they can get. Talking is a start. What follows will occur naturally. There’s no need to recklessly hustle matters along.

“We need a home.” Ross sounds like he’s been sitting on the idea for a couple of days now. Trottimus agrees. While traveling has its perks, having a base to return is appealing.

“I’d prefer the term ‘base’.” ‘Base’ sounds much cooler. Trottimus closes his scant notes on the ‘golden age of Vault Hunters’, contemplating the pros and cons of having a base.

“We need a base, then.” Ross’ teeth crunch the skag leg bone he’s gnawing on.

“You tired of traveling?”

“No.” Ross’ hand idly gestures to indicate he’s referring to the other two. Unable to voice that yes, he is sick of traveling without appearing like a wimp, Ross whistles through his teeth. It makes it sound like air is escaping from a blown tire.

“Alright.” Trottimus adds ‘find a base’ to their paltry to-do list, right underneath ‘annoy Ross by putting in squeaker into his toy bone’. “We need to talk about something called ‘The Vaults’. 

Alsmiffy’s woken up to bitch about his ice bag melting, forgetting about complaining entirely. He sits up.

“What’s a ‘Vault’?” Ross and Alsmiffy ask.

“Jinx,” Alsmiffy says first.

“Fuck!” Ross tries to hit him.

“Our new scheme,” Trottimus says, smiling. 

From what he could make out on Rythian’s singular page (whoever Rythian is, he’s either insane, onto something or both), Trottimus extrapolates that the Vaults could yield a profit of epic proportions if they approached it right.

From what he’d requested of Pyrionflax’s ECHOnet digging, Pyrionflax supplied that that genuine information about the Vaults proved notoriously hard to come by. He’s had to push past conspiracy theories and convoluted rumours. 

What he finds points to the corporations, notably Atlas (back when it had been functional), Dahl and Hyperion. Mostly, it all dates back to the three’s galaxy-wide war to be number one in the Vault Hunting game.

Aside from that bit of history, the rest is virtually nonexistent, thanks to Hyperion’s ruthless purging of any and all Vault Hunters several years back. Thus, ex-Vault Hunters and any who’d survived the purge aren’t exactly keen to reveal their whereabouts, even if Hyperion’s presence on the planet is minimal. 

Information laundering isn’t one of their typical avenues but Hat Corp. is willing to expand its operations in the name of profit. They can start by persuading surviving Vault Hunters to talk, and getting people to talk, one way or another, is something that Hat Corp. excelled at.

\--

\- / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / -

Ross: Who the fuck-

Ross: Get out of here, this is a private chat!

Ross: POLICE!

Sjin: Hello there!

Sjin: Please don't call the police!

Sjin: I come in peace.

Alsmiffy: Who’s this asshole?

Alsmiffy: Did somebody leave this public again?

Trottimus: We’re secure.

Trottimus: How did you find us, stranger?

Sjin: Oh, you’ve been leaving quite the trail behind.

Sjin: It wasn’t too hard to follow.

Trottimus: Who are you?

Sjin: My name is Sjin.

Sjin: I have a generous proposition for you.

Ross: Take your pro whatever it is and get out of here, we were discussing something of a sensitive nature-

Alsmiffy: Sshh, Ross, let the strange person talk.

Ross: Hmph.

Ross: Where are manners these days!

Trottimus: We’re open to negotiations.

Sjin: I hear you three gentlemen are looking for information on the Vaults.

Trottimus: Yes, we are.

Sjin: Then we share a mutual interest.

Ross: Then why are you contacting us?

Ross: We don’t intend to share-

Trottimus: That too, can be negotiated.

Sjin: I’d appreciate it if you could pass on any information you collect on to my secretary.

Sjin: You’ll be paid handsomely for every valid tidbit.

Trottimus: Alright.

Trottimus: It’s a deal.

Sjin: As proof of my generosity, I have a lead that you can track down.

Sjin: A man called ‘Ravs’ is an ex-Vault Hunter. He lives in Sanctuary Hole. I’m sure he’d agree to have a chat about someone called ‘Rythian’.

Trottimus: We’ll take that into consideration.

Alsmiffy: Thanks.

Ross: And good  _ day _ to you, sir!

Sjin: You too! It was a pleasure and I am so sorry we got off on the wrong foot.

Ross: Oh, it’s  _ fine _ , don’t worry.

Alsmiffy: Begone!

Trottimus: Hat Corp., out!

\- / / END ECHO LOG.//

\- / / Note added by ‘Trottimus’: No intention of sharing info; keep an eye on for Sjin future shakedown? Investigate ‘Rythian’ further via ‘Ravs’. / / -

\--

Well, the conversation with Ravs resulted in Ross, Trottimus and Alsmiffy gaining more pick up lines than they know what to do with, and no information about any Vaults. Either Sjin had been lying about his lead or Ravs had run circles around them.

Only a feeling that the trio would be capped in the head if they so much as breathed wrong in Ravs’ direction aborted any escalation to the interrogation. 

Five minutes into the event, Alsmiffy pinpoints the feeling to the bar’s second floor. When he’d glanced up, a green shadow blurred, vanishing from his sight. Using his sense of smell, Ross confirms the presence of an eavesdropper (smelling of blood, murderous intent and a combination of other things that gave Ross the willies, mostly the murderous intent). Trottimus hadn’t dared send his surveyor up, keeping it at head height for extra security.

With a fantastic start, it sets the tone for the rest of the event. The interrogation is a complete fucking trainwreck.

For fuck’s sake, Ross spent half the time preening over his beard (that the other two think looks like an overgrown hedge with its own ecosystem). As the first one to step up to the plate, Ross had gone for the direct approach, employing politeness and friendliness as his chosen tools.

“How can I help you?” Ravs spots them coming into the bar. The three had anticipated on Ravs making a run for it. Ravs remains where he is, behind the counter. 

A friendly atmosphere is projected by his smile. It’s a touch too sunny for Alsmiffy’s liking. It makes him feel  _ welcome.  _ People shouldn’t make the trio welcome when they’re about to drag someone. The three continue, having no idea of how this will go according to their plan.

“We’d like to have a little chat,” Ross tells Ravs, stepping forward. Trottimus and Alsmiffy remain behind him, fanning out to either side.

Fortunately, it’s the middle of the day so Ravs is the only presence in the bar, aside from the other person watching from the second floor.

If Ravs is intimidated by being outnumbered, he’s hiding it extraordinarily well. It’s also because the trio don’t want to consider the idea that Ravs doesn’t think that they’re a legitimate threat kind of hurts. He’s nice enough to let them think that they’re tougher than him.

“Sure.” Ravs rests both hands on the counter, surveying them with interest.

“What do you know of the Vaults?” Ross is careful to keep his tone polite, mirroring Ravs’ smile.

“Only as much as any local,” Ravs replies without missing a beat. “Either way, you get a big fucking mess. Personally, I prefer making messes of other kinds-” The interested look becomes a lot more interested, focusing on Ross.

Ross doesn’t need to ruin his composure by blushing or stalling in any way so he hastily covers it up with, “What’s in the Vaults?”

“Don’t know, I’ve never opened one,” Ravs says. His admission appears truthful enough. He adds with a chuckle, “Regardless of what my reputation says, amongst other things.”

“We’ve definitely heard some things,” Ross weakly says, aware that he’s losing his ground to Ravs’ stolen control of the conversation. A shake of his head allows him to straighten up to full height. “Surely an ex-Vault Hunter like you knows where one is located?”

“Nope, wouldn’t have a clue.” Ravs’ easy honesty is an effective weapon unto itself.

“Then what was the point of all that Vault Hunting you did?” Surely there has to be a Vault Hunter, ex or not who achieved in finding one (or so Hat Corp.’s been wasting their time and energy).

“If you’re thinking of becoming a Vault Hunter, most of it is just fucking around,” Ravs points out.

How he’s keeping a straight face with what he’s saying will continue to floor Ross. For a bunch of foul-mouthed people, the trio preferred crude, blunt humour over subtle flirtations and psychological games with words. Ross, Alsmiffy and Trottimus hated crosswords.

“We know you know something!” Ross’ threat lacks the punch it needs because Ravs is watching him too closely (enjoying his squirming, perhaps). Ross could get lost in those brown eyes if he stared long enough. There’s nowhere else he can look without appearing interested. He’s already feeling the need to back off and admit defeat.

“I know lots of things,” Ravs says, his playful words loosely and indecently wrapping around Ross’ sense of propriety like a black cat and a pair of pristine white trousers. “Which would you like to talk about?” His tone is definitely not bordering on inappropriately flattering.

“You knew a Vault Hunter called ‘Rythian’-” Ross goes right for the heavy ammunition, hoping for a reaction of some kind.

“Oh, Rythian.” Ravs’ tone becomes flippant, his expression disdainful. He huffs. “He hasn’t dropped by in  _ years _ .” The way he says it sounds like he’s referring to an ex who’d run off with something valuable of his. As to what it is is anybody’s guess.

“So you do know him!” Ross accuses. The feeling of eyes boring into the back of his skull intensifies. Whatever instinct Ross has to turn around and leap up to the second floor is tackled by the rest of him.

“Are you looking for him?” Ravs leans forward, his smiling now possessing an menacing edge to it. It should not be that attractive, a contemplative voice at the back of Ross’ mind observes. “If you do find him, tell him to drop by and pay his tab.” Well, that answers that question, of what Ravs wants from this ‘Rythian’.

“You traveled with him,” Trottimus reminds. He’s been trying to discretely see who the eavesdropper is, straining his peripheral vision to the max. So far, all he’s getting is a headache. The eavesdropper knows, remaining out of sight.

“I did,” Ravs acknowledges. “He kept to himself. I was only there as hired muscle, though I did offer to keep him company-”

“Did he take you to a Vault?” Ross interrupts the reminiscing.

“Ha, no!” Ravs laughs, slapping the counter. “Seemed rather worried about me taking off with his precious loot if he so much as told me anything.”

“What loot?” Ross eagerly asks. 

“Aye, can't tell you, mate.” Ravs shrugs. “He spent more time poking about ruins and chasing jobs than doing any actual Vault Hunting. Bloody waste of time, it was.”

“What ruins did he visit?”

“Don’t remember. They all looked the same to me.” If Ravs is acting the role of ‘dumb muscle’, he’s doing it justice. Too bad Ross knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Remember  _ harder _ ,  _ please _ .” Ross leans forward, the last word possessing a bite to it. Ravs raises an eyebrow. Ross snaps his mouth shut at what he’s just said. Time to stick his foot in his own mouth. There can be no recovery from that. Behind him, Alsmiffy and Trottimus stifle their snickering as best as they can.

“What a magnificent beard you have. I like it.” Ravs reaches up to put a hand on Ross’ knuckles. “I’ve never met a werewolf up close before and you’re a fine specimen...”

“You like my beard?” Ross stares at Ravs. Maybe his ears needed cleaning. People didn’t just compliment  _ beards _ . Or pay that much attention to werewolves (and he doesn’t know how Ravs knows he's one).

“I’ve been to beard judging competitions out east and yours would definitely be a grand prize winner,” Ravs says, smiling. The hook ‘grand prize’ reels Ross’ greed in to have a whispered chat in a dark alley about it.

“So, where are these competitions located, you say...”

Shoving Ross aside, Alsmiffy is silently cursing at Ross becoming distracted. Ross lets go of Ravs’ hand. Alsmiffy advances on Ravs.

“Tell us what you know of the Vaults-” He began to snarl.

“But first I’d like you to tell me where you got such a fantastic mask,” Rav smoothly cuts in, leaning on the counter to focus his attention on Alsmiffy. “It really does invite curiosity.”

“I got it on Hecaerge for-” Alsmiffy automatically replies, only to brake his mouth, remember what he’s supposed to be doing and snap back, “Stop distracting me!” Once disarmed of his aggressive momentum, Alsmiffy finds it difficult to regain it. He knows Trottimus is facepalming behind him. Or mentally, that is.

“I’m not doing anything but talking to you,” Ravs points out with a far too innocent expression. “I do serve drinks with straws if you fancy something now. All that ‘work’ is hard on the throat. Trust me, I know all about that.” While mild, that last part had been deliberately worded to stun Alsmiffy.

Nobody’s ever hit on him before in such a blatant fashion and really meant it.

In the time it takes for him to recover, a drink is already being served on the counter. Alsmiffy is forced to concede defeat or look like a belligerent, ungrateful asshole. The drink is rather nice, though. It’s accompanied with a curly straw.

Alsmiffy daintily sips at it, trying not to fume. It’s difficult to be pissed at a man who thoughtfully provided a curly straw with a drink to accommodate someone with a gas mask. Whoever is upstairs is currently paying less attention to the trio, perhaps satisfied that they’re not causing as much trouble.

As the last man standing, a determined Trottimus steps forward. He’s been observing how Ravs operates. This should be  _ easy. _

“You traveled with Rythian and claim that he never took you to any Vaults,” Trottimus blandly states. “I think you’re lying.” A minuscule bit of writing on the page noted ‘T and R have been fighting.  _ Again _ .’.

Ever the image of calm in the face of people wanting to hit him, Ravs smiles. “That’s a terrible thing to accuse me of.” He doesn’t sound that hurt about it, though.

“Not as terrible as lying to three people who’d like to track down their friend,” Trottimus bluffs, playing his winning card. Nothing touched people like  _ friendship. _

“You’re friends of Rythian?” Ravs eyes Trottimus up and down, his expression shifting to something softer. The card’s working. “Funny, he never mentioned having friends before, for a socially awkward loner who skips out on his tabs.”

“Loners can have friends,” Trottimus quietly says. He’s probably laying it on a touch too thick, with that how Alsmiffy snorts into his drink. Ross is preening his beard. It’s probably too generous, but he also offers, “We’ll pick up his tab too.”

“Then why didn’t you say so!” Ravs exclaims. “Any friend of Rythian’s is a friend of mine!” He ducks behind the bar to retrieve two capped bottles of rakk ale. “These are on the house. His tab’s about five hundred dollars, by the way.”

“We’re not here to drink-  _ five hundred _ ?” Even with Ross’ weird and wonderful metabolism, Ross would need to have his stomach pumped if he attempted to drink that much.

Alsmiffy looks at the drink in his hand, then silently leaves the empty glass on the counter. “How much does Rythian drink?” He mutters, flipping the vent to his mask shut. He can still taste the drink on his tongue, a velvety gorgeous mixture that his brain is currently gamboling around in.

An imaginary image of a bank note sprouting wings flies away. He kicks Trottimus in the ankle to stop him from paying up and wasting their funds. When Trottimus doesn’t react, Alsmiffy does it again. As nonchalantly as possible, Ross joins in by poking Trottimus in the butt.

Trottimus reacts by leaning on the counter, administering a pinch to Alsmiffy’s side and stepping on Ross’ foot. “I’ll pay half his tab,” Trottimus compromises. The other two refrain from making their distress known by poking and pinching him in return.

“Then you deserve twice the drinks!” Ravs adds another three bottles of rakk ale once Trottimus has thrown down a wad of faded green bills.

“If you’re worried about getting smashed right away, these are the lightest bottles I have,” Ravs reassures, with an expectant look as the bills ruffle in his hands.

Trottimus takes a bottle, if only to please Ravs and make some headway. Talking to Ravs is proving to be like walking a rope bridge suspended over a canyon with gale-force winds making it rock back and forth at the same time. Who knows when the rope will snap or where the wind will leave them?

“Where did you last see Rythian?” Maybe now he’ll get some proper answers.

Ravs sighs. “Over there.” He points to the doorway.” The trio simultaneously turn to the doorway. Ravs is laughing at them by the time they turn back to him. “Sorry, I couldn’t help it, I don’t get to use that joke very often. Can I whip up something up more for you?”

“You know what I mean,” Trottimus says, trying to avoid letting any chagrin bleed into his tone. Alsmiffy flexes his fingers, always a sign of his impatience. Ross actually is chuckling at the joke under his breath.

“You really want to find him.” Ravs drums his fingers on the counter, giving Trottimus a thoughtful look. “If, by some chance Rythian does drop by and manages to live through paying the rest of his overdue tab, I’ll ECHO you.”

“Thank you!” Trottimus says, only glad to get some sort of compensation for all that. He feels like he deserves a drink- it’s remarkably convenient that he currently has one in his hand.

“Glad to help.” He appears to finally catch sight of the surveyor hiding behind Trottimus. “Huh, never seen a Hyperion surveyor follow someone around like a skag wanting thirds,” He idly observes. 

“Rythian also was on Elpis and-” Trottimus turns to see his loyal surveyor bobbing in the air next to his elbow. Sometimes he forgets it’s there until it bumps into him or someone (or something). He ignores the encouraging look on Ravs’ unfortunately very attractive and grinning face. It’s not the alcohol that’s causing that effect. “Anyway, we know that he poked around on the moon-”

“Did you make that yourself?”

“Fuck no, I stole it,” Trottimus blurts before he can help himself and right, Ravs’ surprised laugh injects a hefty dose of pride so heavy into his ego so that Trottimus finds himself sitting down and tugging his surveyor over to show it off.

Two hours are spent in the Crooked Caber. That’s two hours of the trio's lives, willingly spent, basking in the company of a man who’d made them feel like they’re worth listening to.

They still hadn’t gotten the information they’d wanted out of Ravs. Still, they consider the interrogation a minor success, only because Ravs is willing to keep an eye out for Rythian.

Besides, he didn’t seem like the sort to lie so open to their faces or break hearts that cruelly by deceiving them.

\--

Alsmiffy and Ross are camped out in a technical in the Arid Nexus. There is a fence separating them from their goal of infiltrating the FyreUK radio station compound. It’s the kind of fence that gave borders a name. This one says ‘Keep Out’, achieving the effect with barbed wire, impressive signs and constant humming.

Throwing a rock at the fence reveals that enough electricity is running through it to roast a rakk to oblivion (and deliciousness, if one liked charred beyond recognition).

Former sheriff Turps had ordered them to go and rig the meriff election and well, to the trio, ‘rig’ pretty much equated to ‘intimidate the judges into cooperating however they saw fit’.

Trottimus is keeping an eye on Ravs, watching for any hint that he might have been lying about being friendly towards Rythian. So far, Ravs is keeping a healthy distance away from Rythian. Last he saw, Rythian is staring after a short figure with flaming orange hair and a twitchy figure who appeared to have second thoughts about challenging someone to a duel.

Post-wrestling arm contest, Trottimus had accosted Ravs when Ravs had stepped outside to roll a few more barrels into the bar. 

As it turns out, Ravs had simply forgotten, proceeding to invite Trottimus for a few free drinks to ‘soothe those ruffled feathers’. Does Ravs have any shame? Apparently not. Does Trottimus feel that he’s being duped by accepting the offer? Possibly, but he doesn’t care, it’s _ free drinks _ .

It annoys Ross and Alsmiffy that they’re both out here in the blistering heat, doing all the grunt work while Trottimus gets smashed,  _ and  _ to interact with Ravs.

Plus, Trottimus being absent means that Alsmiffy and Ross really have to put their heads together to figure out a way of entering the compound. While Ross and Alsmiffy aren’t morons, they preferred to let Trottimus do the thinking. He seemed to like doing it anyway.

“I could dig under the fence,” Ross muses out loud. The fence looks like it went down all the way to the planet’s core.

“That’d take all day,” Alsmiffy dismisses. “It’d be faster to melt it.”

“That would take you even longer! And you don’t even have enough gas, I bet.” Ross cackles. “ _ Gas _ .”

“Excuse me, you’re not the one who has the gloves!” Alsmiffy bangs on the roof next to Ross’ head for the snicker.

“Let’s not bicker, we’re just wasting time,” Ross mimics in a poor impression of Trottimus’ voice.

Alsmiffy snickers as well, kicking the cramped space underneath the turret. All it does is make his foot hurt. The heat isn’t helping either. His shield isn’t that effective for heat protection. “Fuck, what would Trottimus do?” It’s a testament as to how annoyed he is to not add ‘in our position’.

“Break the lock.” Ross scratches at his beard. “I wish he’d lent us one of his fancy flying doodads.” ‘Doodads’ is Ross’ latest way of annoying Trottimus by referring to the surveyors in that manner.

“He’d never lend us one,” Alsmiffy says, confident that if they wanted to borrow one, they’d have to enter into a binding and humiliating contract with Trottimus. No thanks, he’d rather burn his own ass. “Besides, they’re a bit shit. They’re always combusting at the drop of a hat.”

Not to mention, Alsmiffy’s woken up more than once to find that he’s being watched by one. It’s  _ creepy _ . He suspects that Trottimus is finally inflicting the beginnings of a psychological torture on him. He won’t set one on fire because it’ll upset Trottimus so it’s ‘endure being stared at by a mechanical floating cyclops until it despawns or explodes’.

“I wonder why he hasn’t fixed that yet.”

“He just sucks at programming,” Alsmiffy automatically concludes. Consider: Trottimus enjoying the spectacle of fire. Then logically, Ross loves eating chocolate, and Alsmiffy loves bathing in liquid nitrogen.

Trottimus’ constant distress at the surveyors destroying themselves had stopped being funny a long time ago, once it’d become evident that Trottimus genuinely did adore them. He languishes for several sleepless nights in a row over their upkeep. The surveyors had gone neglected following the Incident until Trottimus could lift his arms above his chest without grimacing and could grip a power tool without wanting to stab Alsmiffy with it.

“I got an idea,” Ross says, sitting up in the driver’s seat with a broad grin spreading across his face.

The way Ross says ‘idea’ makes Alsmiffy’s attention stand to attention. When Ross has ideas, it’s best to stand very far back or get down on the floor. Unfortunately, Alsmiffy is not in an ideal position to do either of those things. He idiotically asks, “What idea?”

“We  _ fly _ ,” Ross states, reversing the technical back onto the highway. Alsmiffy clutches at the turret for support.

“Technicals can’t fly!” He shouts as the wind begins to pick up as the technical hurtles forth.

“It will if I say it does!” Ross snaps back, making a sharp U-turn that sends Alsmiffy’s back into the railing.

“Ross, slow down, you’re gonna-” Kill us, that’s what. The technical’s boost plasters Alsmiffy to his seat, his hands locked around the railing or it’s goodbye technical. A variety of expletives ricochet around the inside of his mouth, waiting to be spat out.

Ross lobs a grenade ahead of them into the guard preventing people from running off the highway. The highway extends over the radio station. Whoever had designed the highway or the security fence hadn’t accounted for the possibility of flying technicals driven by a determined, shit-eating grinning werewolf and one screaming pyromaniac who is about to develop a new fear of heights.

The technical succeeds in defying gravity for a stomach-dropping five seconds. It drops like a stone once the realisation that it wasn’t made to fly sinks in, falling towards the side of the building. By the time the technical crashes through the wall of the radio station, Alsmiffy has sworn off flying ever again. Dust, plaster and what constitutes as the insides of a building rain down.

By a console that’s seen better days (before being smashed in half by a flying piece of concrete), two bewildered radio hosts are coughing. The remains of equipment spark all around them. The ‘ON AIR’ sign gives up and slinks off to have a coffee and a smoke.

“That went well.” Ross shakes off the layer of white dust settling on his head, face and hair, cheerfully pointing a gun at BruteAlmighty and IFirez. “Oh yeah, put your hands up and do exactly as we tell you!” Whatever bones he’d broken upon the landing are already mending themselves. All he has to do is not move for a bit and pretend that everything is good.

“You don’t have to do exactly as we tell you but it’d be a very good idea,” Alsmiffy says, backing up Ross as best as he can when there’s bits and pieces of building raining down on him. Being concussed in the midst of a threatening session never worked out well.

He has to feel the tiniest bit sorry for the two because BruteAlmighty mutters in a distressed voice, “Not  _ again _ .” A frustrated sigh serves as a pause. “The new fence was supposed to keep people  _ out. _ ”

“You could make the fence bigger,” Ross proposes. One bone down, five more to go.

“I think you mean  _ higher _ , not bigger, Ross,” Alsmiffy corrects. Any chance to insult him will never slide by, not if Alsmiffy has anything to say about it.

“I know what I said!” Ross shouts at him, irritated that Alsmiffy feels the need to do that.

“Yeah, yeah, we need you two to do something nice for us and we’ll leave, yeah?” Alsmiffy takes the chance to annoy Ross further by stealing the words out of his mouth. That precise moment, the very thing that he’d been trying to avoid decides to drop down and clock him in the back of the skull.

Alsmiffy’s head smacks into the technical. A piece of wood barely the size of Ross’ hand clunks onto the dirty floor. Ross simply reaches over to tug Alsmiffy upright, carrying on like his friend hasn’t just been knocked out by falling wood. “Do what he said or I’ll eat you.” Alsmiffy deserves that for stealing his thunder.

FyreUK opts to obey because when a werewolf holding a gun tells them what to do, it’s best to do it in the interest of staying alive for a bit longer.

\--

Southpaw Steam and Power is hidden in an alcove of a valley. It’s south of the dam in the Three Horns area. Formerly occupied by bandits, the only residents of the barely operational hydroelectric power station these days are three con artists slash Vault Hunters. 

Or is it Vault Hunting Hunters? Or Vault Hunter Hunters? Ross and Alsmiffy are debating the problem in loud tones as they enter the dam, both lugging ammo crates indoors.

Once emptied of decaying corpses (the skags feasted that night and Ross’ culinary servings are subsequently lighter than usual), the power station is considered to be significantly cosier than other places that the three previously stayed in.

The only downside is the permanent smell of mildew (no matter how many air fresheners the three invested in), and how their clothes don’t dry properly given that most of the power station extends underground. They haven’t explored the whole facility, content to stick to places where the lights still worked. 

They’re especially wary of the tunnels leading from to the dam. Those tunnels funnelled frothing water into the generators that kept the whole region supplied with electricity. As a result, a perpetual waterfall echoes near the machines.

It made sleeping difficult but that’s solved by plugging up the bedroom door with rags and cuddling closer to Ross so that Ross’ deep, soothing breathing blocked it out.

The three always steer clear of the railings overlooking the machines. The flimsy railings appear questionable from how rusty the fittings appear to be, positioned so close to the rushing water. Nothing ever passes through the roaring tunnels.

If no thresher could survive the crushing movements of the waters, then what hope do any of them have, on the off chance that they fell in? Best not find out first hand. Alsmiffy just slapped some yellow tape over it and called it ‘safe’.

Having a base offers other benefits. Trottimus sticks a couple of ads in Pandora’s shoddy newspaper in exchange for a moonstone being sent over. So far, the results manifest as ECHO calls providing random albeit well-paying gigs. It turns out people are in need of freelancers, regardless of whether or not said freelancers are actual Vault Hunters or not. 

Hat Corp.’s business is booming, their reputation experiencing a new growth (from what Ross and Alsmiffy had heard before they decided to tune out on Trottimus’ nail-biting report that drove the two to nap instead and get shocked by the surveyors once they got caught).

The rest of the time is spent clearing out the power station of dead bodies, dust, mould and bandit junk that couldn’t be repurposed. Most of the garbage is tossed into the only tunnel that doesn’t have a protective grate covering it. Where the rubbish goes, they don’t care.

Bored, Ross put together a makeshift bed made solely out of salvaged couches, once they’d shaken out the cushions and fluffed them up again. He spent fifteen minutes testing it by jumping up and down on it. Trottimus knows because he’d joined him. Alsmiffy had been out at the time, chasing down skags for dinner.

The skags had wised up to his tactic of leaving bait (also known as roadkill or choice bits cut off from bodies) out announcing an incoming roasting from afar.

Are the trio doing something worthwhile with their lives? No. But they couldn’t feel any happier or content.

Just when things couldn’t get any better, Trottimus is contacted by a bandit out of the blue. 

It’s been about two weeks or so after the three had made off with Sanctuary Hole’s power core. That same power core is supplying the station with its own independent source of power, seeing as Trottimus doesn’t want to leech power and accidentally overload the ancient generators and piss off everybody in the region, including one already enraged Ravs. 

Turps is more or less reluctant to offer Hat Corp. further jobs. The trio know that nobody else will run the kinds of jobs he’s asking them to do so he has no choice.

Anyway, one separate generator Trottimus had fixed up recharges the core when they’re out (provided they turn off all the lights beforehand; while they scrapped with people, the trio try to be as environmentally friendly as possible).

“Hey, is this Hat Corp. I’m talking to?” A drawling voice begins.

“Yes, it is. How can we assist you?” Trottimus signals for Ross and Alsmiffy to cease their game of ping pong, the two falling silent to crowd him. The ball bounces off underneath the bed/couch.

“I got a dicey job that needs doing. Only problem is, I’d like to discuss it in person. Stops people from eavesdropping and all that.”

“Can we get a name and location?”

“Arsenal, Dahl Headland, east coast.”

“Would you prefer set a time and date for the meeting?” Trottimus earns an approving nod from Alsmiffy and Ross for his consideration.

“Nah, just rock up whenever you’re free. By the way, we know what you look like, so don’t worry about being shot at.” A laugh follows before the call ends.

“Looks like we got a job to do,” Trottimus dramatically concludes, stowing his ECHO device in his pocket. He stands up to stride over to the door, only to trip on one of the dropped paddles and fall face first.

\--

Driving up through a mass of bandits lounging around outside of a Dahl frigate sounds less intimidating on paper than in practice. Ross drives super carefully to avoid running into any of them. From what the three know from dealings with bandits, any one of them could be the destructive catalyst that set the rest of them off. Bandits could be awfully reliable like that.

The three have to wonder how bandits have thrived on Pandora for this long if they kept fighting each other and amongst themselves.

Bandits also rarely called upon Hat Corp’s. services. Never one to discriminate, Hat Corp accepted whatever bandits asked them to do. Compared to other clients, bandits didn’t offer much pay, preferring to hand over resources, trade and a free pass through the gang’s territory. Mostly, they opted to send Hat Corp. to fuck with other bandit gangs to send a message.

Given how naturally territorial and trigger-happy bandit gangs are towards outsiders, Hat Corp. aren’t going to complain (at least, not in front of the bandits) at the generosity of the reward for all their hard work.

Ross parks the technical in front of an airlock once he’s waved through a checkpoint by a surly Nomad. Buzzards roam overhead, piloted by pilots whose squabbling sound like a flock of particularly noisy rakks fighting over a dead body. 

Trying not to gawk so he doesn’t run into the airlock, Ross swings his gaze around to the front. He can smell frying meat coming from one of the camps. Not wanting to appear distracted, Ross sneaks a bite of his ration bar and tries to chew as discretely as possible.

Trottimus is caught up in making sure that the technical won’t get tampered with, his glare earning a couple of alarmed glances. It’s mostly grins and elbow nudging he attracts. Someone shouts that they like his animal pins. 

“Thank you!” Trottimus shouts back, his face resetting to a glare.

Alsmiffy’s keeping to himself, even as a couple of curious Psychos hoot and holler at him from the sidelines.

“Look at the pretty green!”

“Green, green, green, hot like the inferno in my loins!”

“Goobleydrough fishsticks!” Alsmiffy hollers back, knowing a challenge when he heard it. The Psychos recoil, only to shout back with gusto, their words tangling and causing a pileup.

“Stop it,” Trottimus hisses at him. Alsmiffy pretends he’s lost his hearing in all of the two seconds it takes for him to flip the middle finger. 

The Psychos howl, lunging forward with weapons raised. Ross hops out of the driver’s seat, preparing to defend what’s his, shifting into a crouch and face morphing. Before either side can clash, a bored voice cuts through the middle.

“Shaddup already.” A helmeted Marauder breaks into the conversation from the airlock, yanking a Psycho by the strap of their mask to fling them aside. Scrambling to their feet, the Psycho spews nonsense at light speed, pointing at Alsmiffy. Rather than punch the Psycho, the Marauder nods, appearing to listen. “Uh-huh. Well, that wasn’t very nice of you.” A pause follows as the Psycho becomes more agitated, bouncing on the spot. “Look, maybe you shouldn’t have fucking sworn at them and called their mother a bad word.”

One of the other Psychos has fled. They return, tugging on the arm of another bandit. A giant Psycho catches sight of Alsmiffy and begin to mimic their comrade’s actions, jabbering and pointing, “Cant, Cant, Cant, Cant, Cant, Cant!”

“Yes, Cant, they’re Vault Hunters-” At the word ‘Vault Hunters’, the Psycho screams, spawning a buzzaxe and moves to hurl it at Trottimus. The Marauder grabs the wooden end, grunting from the effort. They’re almost lifted off the ground. “Cant! They’re friendlies!”

The Psycho lowers their arm, allowing the Marauder to tug the axe further backwards. “Cant?” A suspicious look is cast upon the trio.

The Marauder mutters under their breath, “Where the fuck is Bucker when you need him?” In a louder, exasperated voice, they say, “Cant, killing them isn’t going to get us any closer to finding Daltos.”

The Psycho gives a stubborn toss of their bald head, followed by an insistent, “Cant.”

“You can’t extract info from dead people. Ask Fieseler, he’d know all about it. In fact, why don’t you go and do that?” The Marauder suggests in an overly patient tone. When the Psycho remains where they are, weapon still in hand, the Marauder compromises with, “If anything happens, I’ll ECHO you.”

The axe despawns. The Psycho mimes a motion akin to squashing a bug, grinding their plated knuckles into the dust. A pointed look sends a clear message across to the trio, who all try their best to appear innocent. 

“Cant,” The Psycho bids before ducking through the airlock and loping off. Hopefully, it’ll be in the opposite direction.

Bandits wisely disperse from the scene once the Marauder looks up. They’re massaging their wrist, rather unfazed by the whole incident.

“Come on, let’s not keep Arsenal waiting.” At being addressed, Trottimus, Alsmiffy and Ross hurry forward. The Marauder spots Trottimus’ worried glance at the technical. “Relax, your ride ain’t gonna get stolen. Well, I wouldn’t trust the Rats but we can post a guard if that helps.”

“Ha, no, I think we can trust you,” Trottimus responds, disliking how he sounds jumpy for coming so close to starting a brawl.

“If you insist.” The Marauder sounds like they’re relishing the trio’s nervousness.

For that, Alsmiffy would like to set fire to their jacket. Something about that seems like one of those ideas that sound good in his head but promises instant retaliation. With bandits, bandits gave as good as they got. It’s not that difficult to think about how they’d respond to getting set on fire.

The Marauder leads Trottimus, Alsmiffy and Ross deep into the frigate through packed hallways. Without a guide, the three quickly realise that they’d get lost if they wandered off on their own. All the hallways have a uniform look to them, every twists and turns managing to throw off the three’s sense of direction.

The three hasten after the Marauder, keen on keeping up with the bandit’s long strides. Alsmiffy can’t help but admire the helmet and the paint job that coated it in a pleasing shade of navy. It didn’t hide the red streaks from where the bandit had probably tried to scrub off the navy, though.

In a cargo bay, the Marauder hollers for another bandit. Bandits stickybeaking scatter when Ross looks over. The whole room smells of burning metal, giving Ross the impression that he’s not in a cargo bay but a factory.

The bandit being called over is limping, their tanned face lined with a few impressive scars that stand out. In bandit lingo, it says that they’re no stranger to brawling. Either that or they’re accident prone.

“I bring you Vault Hunters,” intones the Marauder, pulling off a bow that seems more mocking than respectful.

“Arado, I’m going to slap you if you don’t cut the sass,” Arsenal cheerfully says. He tugs off a grease-stained glove, looking like he’s about to thwap the other bandit with it.

“But I’m showing you the proper courtesy you deserve,” Arado points out, straightening up from the bow and keeping a healthy distance away from any potential glove-slapping.

“You can do that by not being a pompous fuckwit and getting back to the bridge while I deal with these Vault Hunters.” A nearby bandit drags a crate over for Arsenal, who leans on it. The gloves are stuffed into a compartment on his belt.

“As you command.” The Marauder excuses themself with a farewell nod at the trio.

“I’ll command you to walk the plank next!” Arsenal shouts after the Marauder.

“We don’t have a plank!”

“Want to bet your life on that?” 

“Pass!” 

The bandits chuckling pretend to be busy with repairs when Arsenal notices them. Satisfied that nobody is slacking off, Arsenal turns to the Vault Hunters watching him. 

For a bandit, he’s shorter than they expected (the other Marauder having a full head on him), lacking any sort of visible, muscular bulk that typically dictated who’s in charge through being able to beat down any other bandit that aspired to take their place.

The limp advertises ‘off me, I’m an easy target’. The way other bandits tripped over themselves to stay out of Arsenal’s way says otherwise.

“Hello,” Arsenal says, waggling his fingers in an exaggerated wave of sorts. “Yes, I’m real. You can stop staring at me like that,” He cheekily says.

“Hi,” Trottimus automatically says. “We’re not staring, we’re just…” An imploring look is thrown at Ross.

“Good day,” Ross follows up with. He quickly adds, “Inspired by your presence.”

“Greetings,” Alsmiffy volunteers. The other two members of Hat Corp. stare at Alsmiffy expectantly. “Nice bay,” Alsmiffy lamely says.

“Why thank you, I’ve been redecorating.” Arsenal laughs. “Ever tried to redecorate a cargo bay? It’s harder than it sounds. Plus, all those blood stains and grease don't mix so good…” He trails off with a contemplative look at the floor.

“You had a job for us?” Trottimus inquires, unable to figure out why Arsenal holds power over this many bandits. He seems to be harmless. Mostly.

“Yeah, I do,” Arsenal confirms, shaking off whatever thought he’d been busy with. “Follow me.” He limps through a doorway, taking them back into a hallway. Arsenal punches a code into a locked room several metres away, entering. The trio follow him in.

A Dahl Grinder sits against a wall. Alleys with targets fill the remainder of the room where columns of wall-mounted storage units don’t. A workbench stocked with an assortment of parts to make a gun enthusiast spontaneously combust in joy takes up a whole wall. The whole room smells of oil and gunpowder. Ross can trace the same scent to Arsenal. This must be his room and his alone.

Above the workbench, a corkboard with a few outdated notices, schedules absorbing one another, sketchy gun schematics and one drawing is set into the wall. A couple of photos are pinned in one corner (of three people standing to attention on the bridge). From where they’re standing, the trio can’t make out the people on the photos, only the fuzzy outlines.

Arsenal tugs down a piece of paper, limping back over to the trio to hand it over.

It’s a mug shot of a bandit, one of the ones that other bandits affectionately dubbed as ‘midget’, and got a swift kick to the groin for it. A shotgun is carried by the bandit in the picture, sticking up behind one shoulder. The backdrop of the photo is the shooting range that the trio and Arsenal are currently standing in.

“Who’s this?” Ross leans down to inspect the photo. There’s nothing particularly distinguishing about the bandit he’s looking at.

“His name is Focker. You’re going to bring me his head,” Arsenal states, idly picking up a pistol from the workbench to fiddle with it. An incendiary part is traded out for an ordinary one.

Wait. Did Arsenal mean that literally? Best to clarify. Hat Corp. can never tell with bandits. “Did you want us to actually bring his real head or…?” Ross asks. At least he’s not asking them to bring back a whole body. Those are tricky to fit into a suitcase, not to mention messy.

“Yes, his actual head.” Arsenal looks at Ross, raising an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t be too hard for you three.” Ross is aware that two tin helmeted bandits are squeezing into the room. If Ross wants to be super optimistic, perhaps they’re waiting for Arsenal to acknowledge them once he’s done dealing with the trio.

“If you want the actual head, it’ll run you a bit more than our usual fee,” Trottimus advises, running some numbers in his head. “Since we usually don’t do body part retrieval once we off them.”

“Sure, I can pay it. Just bring the head back intact, will you?” Arsenal says. “That’s very important.” He peers down the scope, aiming the gun at one of the targets.

“What do you need the head for?” Alsmiffy wants to know because Pandora is full of surprises like that (for example, skag pearls, face pizza, and rakk hives).

Alsmiffy’s curiosity earns an approving grin from Arsenal. “We always decapitate our traitor’s heads to put up outside, but that ain’t possible, given where Focker’s run off to.”

“Where’d he go?” Trottimus takes over the thread of conversation before Alsmiffy can want to get into the gory details (which Arsenal appears to have no problem sharing).

Arsenal reloads the pistol in his hand, feeding it ammo from his belt. He clicks his tongue, thinking. “My scouts tell me that he’s trying to make a new life for himself by winning the Murder Death Rally up north.”

Something about the name jogs Trottimus’ memory in a way that he’s learned it associate with danger. It’s probably the combination of the words ‘murder’ and ‘death’ that did it. 

“Isn’t that the event where you all get into really dangerous vehicles and try to kill each other?” Trottimus hopes that the answer is ‘no’.

“That’s the one!” Arsenal visibly brightens at their scant knowledge of bandit customs.

“Let me get this straight, you want us to enter the race, kill Focker and bring his head back in one piece.” People didn’t emerge from the Murder Death Rally in one piece. People (or whatever’s left of then) got sent home in bags with a ‘thks 4 paticeeepatg’ ribbon.

“Yep!” Arsenal adds in a matter-of-fact tone, “Or you’re not getting paid.”

“You didn’t say that this job would involve entering a Murder Death Rally!” Trottimus objects.

“Yeah, we didn’t sign up to get murdered!” Ross adds his indignation to Trottimus’ own. Murder, yes, they can do. Murder at high speeds while trying to bring back an intact head? Probably impossible. Hat Corp. is good at what they do but not  _ that _ good.

Arsenal sighs the patient sigh of someone who knows that they’ve been obvious from the beginning and that everybody else is being far too slow on the uptake. “I told you that this job was a little different, which means pretty much the same thing.”

“No it doesn’t.” Alsmiffy takes one step towards Arsenal. “So I think you should provide us a little more  _ incentive _ .” Being taller than Arsenal, Alsmiffy can try to loom over him. “Or at least, some help.”

Arsenal smirks. “I think I got what you need.” He puts down the pistol to feel along the storage units set into the wall. None of the units are labeled or marked in any obvious way. Finding what he’s looking for, he whistles.

A Maliwan rocket launcher is spawned. Arsenal hefts the whole weapon up onto one shoulder like it’s made out of cheap plastic. He brings it over. “Catch,” He warns.

The rocket launcher is tossed to Alsmiffy like it’s a child’s toy. Alsmiffy hastens to catch it, causing him to comically topple over when it slams into his biceps and chest, winding him. He’s ashamed to let a whimper escape. Grunting, Ross assists Alsmiffy up like he would a scarecrow needing an emergency appointment with a chiropractor. 

Holy shit, it takes the two of them to hold up the rocket launcher, and Ross is the strongest out of the three. Trottimus snaps his mouth shut at the orange marking the weapon as one that should be handled carefully; provided Ross can even lift the thing in the first place.

Selling the rocket launcher would keep them fed in rations for  _ years.  _ The rocket launcher’s polished to a perfect sheen. No signs of neglect mar it. This is a weapon that deserved every bit of care lavished onto it and paid it back tenfold. If Trottimus hadn’t been in any danger of being squashed under it, he’d cuddle it and lavish utter devotion upon it (and hope that surveyors won’t get jealous).

A bandit by the door guffaws, managing to pronounce every individual ‘ha ha ha’. The other bandit snickers. Arsenal doesn’t laugh but continues to smirk in that irritating, smug way of his. “I want that back when you’re done, by the way.”

“How about ‘no’-” Alsmiffy makes the mistake of saying out loud, about to shove the ‘Pyrophobia’ into his inventory when the barrel of a pistol is snugly pressing up against his head. With hands too occupied by the rocket launcher, Alsmiffy is caught off guard and is virtually helpless.

Trottimus has a hand pressed to his modules, frozen in the midst of calling out a surveyor. Ross’ hands have curled, fingers on the verge of sharpening into pinpoints. A mouth full of teeth is set in a growl. None of it helps.

None of them had seen Arsenal  _ move,  _ let alone draw.

“How about you think long and hard about about whose base you’re standing in before you go running off with people’s shit?” Arsenal warns, in a soft, deadly ‘don’t fuck with me’ voice. “Especially since they were nice enough to lend it to you for free, if at all.”

The bandits by the doorway are Goliaths, arms set to bludgeon Alsmiffy, Ross and Trottimus if Arsenal wanted it. It’s up to Alsmiffy to decide what’ll happen, since he’s the one holding the rocket launcher.

Out of the corner of his vision, Trottimus and Ross give nearly imperceptible shakes of their heads.

Alsmiffy swallows. No weapon is worth the lives of his two best friends. He nods to Trottimus, playing it nice when all he wants to do is throttle Arsenal for making a fool out of him.

“We’ll give back the rocket launcher once we return with the head,” Trottimus says for him when the Goliaths are close enough. He can almost see their murderous eyes through the slits in their helmets.

“That’s more like it.” Arsenal lowers the pistol, allowing Alsmiffy to put away the rocket launcher. The advancing (and disappointed) Goliaths are waved back to their posts.

Just when Alsmiffy thinks he’s escaped pain, the hand not holding the pistol slams into Alsmiffy’s gut. He goes down onto his knees with a pitiful wheeze at how precise that punch had been: right to the ribs, underneath his diaphragm.

“You fu-” Trottimus’ hand tugs on Alsmiffy’s shoulder, cutting off the curse.

“Just be glad I’m letting you off with a warning,” Arsenal lightly says, drawing back to let Ross and Trottimus retrieve Alsmiffy. “Good luck!”

“Thank you,” Alsmiffy wheezes (his sarcasm ruined by it) as Ross is helping him up towards the door. The Goliaths let them pass. Outside the room, the helmeted Marauder is waiting to lead them back to the three’s technical.

What a fucking prick. On the other hand, it explains how Arsenal is now running the Blitzkrieg Blighters. No bandit could approach Arsenal head-on and expect to live, given that most bandits didn’t expect to have their brains blown out with one shot the instant they challenged him.

Alsmiffy is beginning to hate being pistol whipped, almost as much as he hates heights, space, and looking like an idiot.

\--

As per a silent agreement with Arsenal, the Blitzkrieg Blighters allow Hat Corp. a shortcut through their territory as the three make their way up north. The gang’s territory spans the majority of the east coast, dominating all other bandit clans. Pockets of people still existed. By trading with the bandits, people survived, so long as the trade remains constant or people had something to offer.

Whoever had been running the Blitzkrieg Blighters had set up a system that benefitted both sides, even if both sides would rather wipe the other out.

Arsenal currently being in charge lent the gang a sharper, defined purpose. Where one had existed before, it’s now being honed by his control. Everywhere Hat Corp. goes, signs of those are evident; the Blitzkrieg Blighters are on the move, heading westwards.

A couple of nights are spent in a convoy’s company once the trio are nearing their destination. Clearly, Arsenal had sent the convoy instructions to supervise Hat Corp.’s arrival to the Murder Death Rally. The three know that Arsenal’s keeping a close eye on them to make sure that they don’t run off with his rocket launcher.

At the border, the bandit in charge of the convoy nods. 

“We’ll be waiting here,” The Marauder in Nomad’s clothing tells Trottimus. Somehow, they’d picked up on the fact that Trottimus is in charge without having to observe. Trottimus likes this bandit best. They had their head screwed on right in comparison to the rest.

“You’re not entering the Murder Death Rally with us?” Trottimus asks. Ross and Alsmiffy have scurried off to scout ahead under the cover of twilight.

“Unfortunately, Arsenal got us banned years ago,” the Marauder says, grinning.

“What’d he do?” Trottimus watches the trailer carrying the trio’s technical lower it to the ground.

“He did something that you should never do at a bandit wedding.” The Marauder pauses. Perhaps for dramatic effect.

After a few seconds of anticlimactic suspense, Trottimus realises that they’re waiting for him to ask. “What?” He obliges.

“Can’t tell you, he’d probably murder me.” The Marauder chuckles. “Daltos didn’t speak to him for three whole months after he did it, though.”

Right, Trottimus will have to revise his opinion of Arsenal. If Alsmiffy did something as stupid as that, Trottimus would- wait, that’s already happened. “Where’s Daltos?”

Daltos is a name that’d been attached to the gang. Bandit Lords generally didn’t trust their lieutenants to handle direct dealings with Vault Hunters on the account of being too paranoid that their lieutenants would hire the Vault Hunters to off them instead of the intended target. For him to be absent from the deal strikes Trottimus as unusual.

The Marauder shrugs. “He ain’t been feeling so well, so Arsenal’s running the show for now.”

“Trott, why aren’t you dressed yet?” shouts Ross from over the hill. He slides back down to the bandits carefully finishing up unloading the three’s technical. 

Over the course of the escort, Trottimus, Ross and Alsmiffy had been upgrading it to disguise it as a bandit made vehicle, following the Marauder’s (and just about everybody else who’s a part of the convoy, sparking a few fistfights in the process) helpful input.

Trottimus changes into a Marauder’s gear. The only addition is the gas mask going over his face. When he breathes, he can smell the sharp scent of disinfectant making him slightly dizzy. He opens the vent letting in fresh air. That’s loads better; now he can drive without crashing.

“Alsmiffy?” He can’t spot Alsmiffy amongst the bandits, not until he spies a gas mask identical to his own amongst them.

“Here,” Alsmiffy says, lifting a hand as he climbs into the technical. He slides into the back, tugging his flame-spawning gloves into place. Alsmiffy’s also opted for a Marauder disguise. In fact, it suits him so perfectly that Trottimus is inclined to check if it’s really him by asking him ‘who bought Ross’ pink chew toy?’.

Ross is climbing into the driver’s seat. He’s shirtless, having opted to go for a Bruiser’s getup: no shirt, only a gas mask, pants and secondhand combat boots. It shows off how well-built he really is, underneath the suit. A couple of bandit are checking Ross out as he steers past them.

“You’re on your own in there,” the Marauder says, escorting them for the final time. “We’ll be watching and rooting for you, though.” A nod indicates a couple of weedy-looking Rats setting up a screen in front of a crowd of bandits egging them on.

“Thanks.” Trottimus has nothing else to add. Having bandits root for him and the other two feels nice, though. The technical speeds up the hill at Ross’ command.

Ross’ voice is muffled through the mask. He shoves it up far enough to expose his mouth. “My mask smells  _ weird.” _

“Not as weird as your face,” Alsmiffy retorts. His insult is lost because of the same issue. Surprisingly, Alsmiffy isn’t that upset over not being able to wear his own gas mask because Trottimus and Ross had insisted on matching.

The bandit at the gate waves them in without looking too closely, pointing them to the contestant’s area, a series of underground tunnels that’ll eventually open up to the Murder Death Rally.

“Welcome to the 234th Murder Death Rally for those of you who can count higher than ten…” A familiar voice booms. 

Another familiar voice excitedly adds, “Bossanova’s got a sore throat today so-” Raunchy jeering drowns out the rest of the sentence. Clearly nobody liked whoever the commentators are talking about. “We are FyreUK and we’ll be your commentators for this month’s Murder Death Rally!” The amount of applause, stamping, whistling and assorted crowd noises from upstairs dislodges dust from the ceiling.

“This place could collapse any second,” mutters Trottimus from the turret. He’s performing last minute checks on the technical’s weaponry. 

The Marauder (Bucker is their name, he recalls) had told him all they could remember of the event. Race, kill or be killed, try not to die and walk away with a couple of big ones.

“You ready?” Ross asks, pulling his mask over his face.

“You three got a name?” A bandit swaggers over with a clipboard and a pen. 

“That’s new.” Alsmiffy frowns. “We didn’t know we needed a name.”

“Just do your best to spell it out.” The bandit rolls their eyes, sighing as they thrust the clipboard towards Ross. “Look, FyreUK wants to know all the names of whoever’s going into the grinder. Says it helps the rally if they know who’s exploding.”

“I got one,” Ross says, scrawling a name down before Trottimus and Alsmiffy can stop him. He hands the clipboard back.

“Nice gas masks,” The bandit compliments. They glance down at what Ross had wrote, adding, “Cool name too. You got my bet.” They wander off to harass the next vehicle in line.

“The rally starts in five minutes! Contestants, please take your places at the front of the tunnel without fighting!” BruteAlmighty (or is it IFirez?) shouts over the speakers. “Our guest band, the Bloody Bandits are now on stage…”

The bandits are taking this seriously enough in that all the vehicles align without any sort of brawl starting. Engines fill the room with a thrumming that reminds Trottimus of a hive about to emerge out of hiding to attack.

Ross positions them in the back. The bandit next to them toss over taunts. Alsmiffy rises to meet the occasion. Getting a terrible idea, Alsmiffy begins to juggle a couple of fireballs.

“Alsmiffy, stop that!” Trottimus hisses, watching the traffic light for any sign of it changing color.

“You like that?” Alsmiffy drawls. The bandits next to them are watching with open mouths. Feeling fancy, Alsmiffy adds another one, so that the fireballs become three.

The light turns green and the world becomes hell. The technical shoots forward, ramming into the vehicle in front, a tow truck with spikes protruding from the side to puncture tires. The bandits in front turn around, raising crowbars.

Ross swerves around them, flipping the middle finger and twirling the steering wheel. Trottimus opens fire with the buzzsaw turret, causing a bandit to be flung back into the tunnel, blood spurting from the newly created stump on their arm. On either side, more vehicles join the epic rush towards the light.

An explosion propels the technical into the night. They’re greeted by a sick guitar riff that clashes with the commentary. Music thumps out of the speakers, shaking the whole arena and adding a surreal layer of existence to the whole rally.

Dead bodies crunch underneath the technical’s wheels as it struggles to keep up with the other vehicles or stay out of their way. While lacking the gruesome upgrades or absurd amounts of plating or decorations, the technical has two advantages: it’s lighter and speedier.

This is what is keeping them alive as other vehicles smash into one another. A Monster explodes from a collision with an explosive barrel, sending debris flying out. A bandit screams as shrapnel flies into their bare head, killing them instantly. Trottimus misses what happens to their body, ducking to avoid his shield taking a fatal hit and leaving him exposed.

The technical’s tires skid as Ross drifts around the outside, challenging a light runner manned by two bandits. The runner’s turret swings around to meet them, the bandit aiming at Ross. Alsmiffy pops up over the roof of the technical to flame the back of the light runner, overheating it.

Before the light runner can explode, Ross breaks away, borrowing an upturned truck to perform a jump that takes them over three vehicles to skip the queue.

“The Stunt Lads are really making a name for themselves here, look at all that fire coming out the back!” BruteAlmighty reports over the deafening sound of the Bloody Bandits.

“I think it’s coming from one of the Stunt Lads themselves and it is definitely not against the rules!” While weapons being used in the Murder Death Rally is frowned upon, it’s not exactly cheating.

“Good going, Ross!” Trottimus compliments once he’s caught his breath.

“That was an accident, my foot slipped since my boots are a size too big,” Ross modestly admits. “Ow!” 

A blast from a rocket turret causes the technical to spin out. Ross attempts to regain control, failing since the technical’s wheels are currently covered in spilled oil. Trottimus steadies his feet against the sides of the turret, leaning out.

“Switch!” Trottimus signals by banging on the roof.

Ross is barely in the turret when another rocket blast sends them spinning again. Alsmiffy makes an annoyed sound, raising both hands to expel a burst of fire out back.

It straightens the technical, causing it to corkscrew through the air once a ramp boosts them high above the ground. Someone in the crowd flashes ‘10’ on a bit of soggy cardboard. “Land it, Trott!” Alsmiffy screams over Trottimus and Ross’ screaming.

The technical crashes onto the ground, bouncing up twice before surging onwards with renewed momentum. Trottimus thinks that the accelerator pedal is going to need replacing from how fast the technical’s been constantly going.

“Stunt Lads certainly lives up to their name!”

Trottimus pulls off a wave before he takes the technical over a series of sandy bumps and hills. The three are catching up to the rest of the vehicles engaging in a massacre up ahead. Bloodthirsty doesn’t describe it. Bloodthirsty, violent and dirty might.

“Look!”

In the very front, a small figure is manning a Monster, holding their ground against three Psychos. A shotgun blasts one Psycho over the edge of the trailer stuck to the Monster’s side. Another blast makes the trailer shake. A third sends the trailer flying off to lodge underneath another Monster, causing it to somersault and send the occupants flying into the crowd. The two remaining Psychos advanced on Focker, who’s busy reloading.

Trottimus avoids the last bit trailer. The trailer scratches down the side of the technical with a sound that has Ross whimpering.

“Go a little faster!” Alsmiffy urges, his eyes on Focker. All around them is destruction and they are part of the madness, letting it shape them just as much as they shaped the destruction.

“We’re going as fast as we can!” Trottimus snaps. It’s not easy driving on ground littered with bodies, debris, junk and the constant threat of being exploded at any second. To his right, the swishing ‘chunk-chunk’ of the shuddering buzzsaw turret is hammering away as Ross is trying to eliminate as many of their opponents.

The purring ‘fwoosh’ of fire tells Trottimus is Alsmiffy is living up to his favourite pastime and loving every second of it: setting things on fire. Once, it would have made Trottimus on edge for hours. Now, he can barely feel a twinge of fear as gas hisses and ignites a metre behind his head.

“Take us closer!” Ross orders. Trottimus obliges, gunning the engine. They shoot past a staring contest between a Bruiser and a Marauder.

Focker spots them coming, ducking into the turret. They pull out a rocket launcher, hurriedly reloading it.

“He didn’t load it beforehand!” Ross laughs, derisively, honking the horn as a challenge.

“Uh, Ross?” Alsmiffy tries to get his attention by kicking the back of the driver’s seat through the corrugated metal.

“Don’t ruin this for me!” Ross shouts.

“He’s loaded it now,” Trottimus points out.

“Who’s he aiming at?” The three of them watch Focker swivel in the Monster turret. They can almost see what Focker is seeing through the rocket launcher’s scope.

“Us, looks like,” Alsmiffy concludes.

“Oh, shiiiittttt!” Those two words give way to the three simultaneously screaming. If any of the bandits had been holding a wine glass (like any of them were; the closest thing is a pane of glass managing to stay unbroken the whole time up until that moment), it’d have shattered.

The rocket barrels past the technical, hitting the vehicle bearing down on them from behind. A storm of heavy metal from the Bloody Bandits softens the screams. The explosion rocks the technical, bucking it up.

“Holy-” Ross resets the turret, grabbing the handles and firing at the Monster. “That little shit!”

“Ross, don’t use the turret, it’ll ruin his head!” Alsmiffy shouts as Ross lines up the crosshairs on the turret on Focker’s head.

“I forgot!” Ross diverts his aim so that it ends up ricocheting into someone’s tires, making them skid into a wall and crash. There are six pile-ups (and counting) on the track, contestants getting out and brawling. 

Nobody seems to mind. In fact, the crowd is loving it. Four vehicles are left in the running. A vivid orange colored bumper car and tank hybrid is dodging everything their opponent’s throwing at it. Somewhere in the crowd, two bearded figures (one grey and the other brown) egg the carnage on with waves of their wrench and crowbar.

“We need to take him out in a different way,” Trottimus says, grinding his teeth. All the sweat that’s gathered along the sides of his face from how adrenaline inducing the whole event is is making him high, twitchier and prone to reckless decisions.

“We get up close and personal,” Alsmiffy decides. He snaps his fingers, causing a lick of flame to snake around his knuckles, the wind throwing the flame back. “Let me climb in front! I’ll get up there and disarm him!”

“Are you  _ insane _ ?” Trottimus nearly collides with a loose wheel freely rolling down the track. “Wait, don’t answer that-”

“Insane enough to try it!” Alsmiffy unsteadily climbs over the roof of the technical. Ross reaches out to steady him by the arm. Alsmiffy shrugs him off, crawling forwards and over Trottimus like a navy and green patterned lanky lizard of sorts. The wind almost blows him over. He manages to dig his heels in, staying upright.

He stands on the hood of the technical, surfing it. The technical shakes as it avoids another rocket. Alsmiffy throws his arms out, steadying himself. Gravity is urging him to fall so that it can catch him and grind his face into the dust. He tries not to listen, focusing on the Monster that’s drawing closer and closer.

“Closer, Trott!” Alsmiffy grounds out, preparing to jump. One mistaken and he’s roadkill.

“I’m trying!” The technical is smoking, probably beginning to overheat at how hard the engines are being pushed to keep up such a frantic pace. Trottimus guns the boost, allowing the technical to put its head down and change.

The technical draws up alongside the Monster. Out front, the driver is tussling with a Psycho who’d broken through the windshield, wielding an axe and trying to lodge it in the driver’s head. Focker is throwing curses down.

A hook is entangled around the turret, preventing him from retaliating by shooting it.

Alsmiffy snatches the loose chain that swings past him, using it to haul himself onto the back. His feet leave the technical when Trottimus has to swerve to avoid a wreck, causing him to swing wildly. His front painfully slams into the side. Losing sight of Trottimus and Ross doesn’t help.

“Fuck, ow!” He scrabbles, feet kicking out to try to find a foothold. The Monster does its best to buck him off as the Murder Death Rally enters the bumpier portion of the course, a series of sand hills crudely sculpted into a child’s idea of a dirt bike rally track.

The gas mask Alsmiffy is wearing prevents him from inhaling any of the sand that’d have choked him. His grip on the chain is slipping; his gloves are meant for breathing fire, not gripping.

A boot scrapes against the railing. Alsmiffy toes along it, putting his whole body onto it. It’s not over yet. If Ross tried to climb the chain, it’d have snapped by now. Alsmiffy’s never been so glad to be as skinny and light as he is, at the cost of his melee blows lacking the same ‘oomph’ as his friend’s hits.

The chain rattles as he begins to climb, every bump of the Monster rendering the climb far longer than it actually is. It’s funny how time distorts when one is in actual danger. 

Alsmiffy’s vision has closed to everything else but the chain in his hands and his gloves pulling on link after link after link. The side of the Monster under his feet slicks his boots in dust, sand, dirt and mud. Almost every part of his body hurts, his elbows especially. Air blasts him from the sides, trying to flip him over and ruin his progress. His arms feel like they’re about to fall off. 

Every muscle has pushed past the point of cramping and into a place that words can’t describe but it’d probably be summed up with ‘PLEASE CUT MY FUCKING ARMS OFF ALREADY, JUST TAKE THEM’. 

He’s distantly aware that Trottimus and Ross are covering him from afar as somebody else interferes. A buzzsaw cuts through Alsmiffy’s poor shield, bouncing off his face. Taking the blow flings his head back. Blood gushes out of the scored cut on his face, breaking his mask. Bah, that’s bandit quality, cool looking but couldn’t stand a solid hit.

It’s not his own gas mask so Alsmiffy has no goddamned qualms about reaching up to rip it off. It’s lobbed over his shoulder, lost like all the lives in the Murder Death Rally. The reveal stuns the crowd, wows FyreUK and earns a dedicated five minute sick guitar solo from the Bloody Bandits.

Alsmiffy is deaf to the ruckus, forcing his own palm to close again on the chain. It hurts, the cut. Blood wets his neck, his shirt, jacket and seeps into his underwear. It doesn’t feel as serious as it should. Adrenaline and his iron determination to fulfil his goal dampens the pain when he should have let go at this point.

Never before has Alsmiffy ever risked his life so stupidly in such a fashion and by whatever deity exists, this had better fucking pay off or he’s going to flame the nearest religious building until his rage burns out. 

The end of the chain’s been wrapped around the railing, the hook clattering with every bump on the course. The hook is in his hand by the time Alsmiffy’s clawed his way up to the turret. Focker notices the chain by their hand loosening and turns to meet a spectacle of hell.

Snarling, Alsmiffy twirls the hook in his hand, lobbing it at Focker’s head like a four pronged trident. It misses, lodging on a railing on the other side of the Monster. He drags the chain back the opposite way like he’s scraping off excess icing from the top of a cake and the chain is the knife’s edge.

Squeaking in fear, the little asshole ducks to avoid being narrowly decapitated or choked. Alsmiffy swings at them and feel his knuckles slam into the metal. Focker’s size is an advantage in close combat when other people would have been hit by now.

Focker aims at Alsmiffy, firing the shotgun. Alsmiffy jerks the chain back the other way, trapping the shotgun between the turret and it. Focker makes a terrified sound like a dying, constipated rakk.

“You little shit, tried to take my head off, did you?” Alsmiffy crows. He’s abruptly punched in the face by a brass knuckled fist.

The crowd groans at how his head snaps back. Focker giggles, almost a laugh.

“Having a right giggle, are you, mate?” Pain is  _ nothing _ to him. Alsmiffy throws his head back and  _ laughs _ . Aware that his laughter sounds (there’s no point in denying it) deranged, Alsmiffy smears blood all over his nose and mouth by wiping his sleeve across it. Chuckling darkly, he leans forward.

Focker scrabbles backwards in the cramped space. “Get away from me!” The shotgun clicks, signalling its need for a reload. Over the muffled sounds of the Murder Death Rally, the sound is like music to Alsmiffy’s damaged ears.

Now close enough to tower over Focker, Alsmiffy opens his empty palm, fanning his fingers wide to expose the vent there. Nothing he says will ever beat this moment. Grinning like the devil himself, he unleashes a torrent of flames channeled from hell itself.

In desperation, Fokker throws the empty, useless shotgun at Alsmiffy. It hits him under the chin, causing the hook to wobble as it’s shifted out of place. The chain snags. Turning their head, Focker spies Alsmiffy’s predicament and lunges to slap it off the railing.

Cursing, Alsmiffy’s flame scorches the driver’s back instead. The driver lets out a pained shriek as they’re engulfed.

On the giant, cracked screen of the Murder Death Rally, everyone watches as Alsmiffy is thrown off the Monster and over Ross and Trottimus’ heads. The two can only watch as Alsmiffy is lost in the wall of dust behind both vehicles.

Cameras zoom in on Ross and Trottimus’ horrified expressions. The two had torn off their gas masks at the same time as Alsmiffy, also sick of breathing in their own sweat.

Faces harden. Following some sort of silent signal from Ross, Trottimus leaps into the empty driver’s seat as Ross climbs onto the hood on all fours, his bare feet braced against the metal. A pair of boots land in the dust far behind the technical.

People watch as Ross howls, his face metamorphosing into a mass of fur, fangs and fury incarnate. Claws shred metal off the hood like a scraper attacking paint; Trottimus hunches down to avoid being hit by whatever Ross tears off. Buzzsaws are deflected by swipes of Ross’ claws like they’re flies.

The technical rams into the back of the Monster, causing the Monster to stall for a second. A second is all Ross needs to leap through the air, claws and fangs extended to descend on Focker.

Later, when interviewed by FyreUK, all Parvis, Sparkles, Kogie and Leo can describe of the incident is: a goddamned furious werewolf going to town on a bandit and it was pretty much the bloodiest thing ever and you can watch the video our ECHOnet channel at…

To Ross, it’s a blank. There’s an empty space where that memory should have existed, blotted out by sheer, righteous rage at losing Alsmiffy.

To Trottimus, all he sees is Ross’ enormous curved fangs closing around Focker’s head. In one motion, like Ross is tugging at a particularly stubborn bit of leftover meat stuck on a bone, Focker’s head separates from his body. Blood trickles down into the turret, staining the seat and the metal beneath the Monster.

Miraculously, Ross doesn’t bite down on the head. Deep down in Ross’ brain, he knows how important it is to leave the head intact. He spits out the head, his tongue running over his teeth. Trottimus catches the head as he catches up to the Monster 

Trottimus looks up in time to see Ross beginning to eat the rest of Focker’s body, digging in with clear relish.

“Ross!” Trottimus bellows. A distant memory of Ross warning him to never,  _ ever  _ allow him to eat another human being rings the bell of recollection in his mind so ferociously that it falls off altogether. Hollie had warned him about this in her extensive notes.

The being that is Ross and not Ross swings its shaggy head around to look at Trottimus with gleaming, yellow eyes and a mouth full of red. Claws dig into the side of the Monster to serve as anchors, gouging shaky lines.

“Ross, stop!” Trottimus continues to bellow. The head is dropped into his inventory. It can bleed out all over his shit for all he cares, he needs to get Ross to snap out of it.

A murderous swipe takes off a side mirror. Trottimus screams as Ross roars his displeasure at being interrupted, spit and blood splattering the side of the technical.

One bullet whizzes past Ross’ snout, causing him to recoil and roar at the offender. The badly burned driver of the Monster is holding a pistol up, aiming it at Ross’ head.

Ross intercepts it as a challenge, throwing a claw forward to rip off the rest of the turret (and Focker’s body with it). Another bullet misses Ross’ face as the driver tries to shoot him in the head. 

Trottimus helps out by ramming the front of the technical into the Monster, causing the driver to scream at him, “What the fuck are you  _ doing _ ?”

“He’s my  _ friend _ !” Trottimus screams back.

The driver screams back an incredibly bad word that parents accidentally teach their children when they drop something on their toe. Ross thrusts his head forward, mouth falling open to rip the driver into two. 

The driver takes aim, the barrel aimed right between Ross’ eyes. Trottimus also remembers that while Ross could endure beatings that broke other people, a headshot to the brain will definitely kill him.

He’s let the technical drift too far to ram the Monster again. Trottimus throws a surveyor out, ordering it to target the bandit.

It’s too late. He’ll never make it.

The hook tearing the bandit a new one does, though. The driver jerks with a shocked ‘hurk’, letting go of the pistol. It falls out of their hand, after their body. Their body falls back off the Monster, joining the rest of the accumulating corpses.

Alsmiffy lets go of the chain in his hand, turning the ride he’d stolen around so that it’s facing Trottimus’ technical.

“That took forever to aim,” Alsmiffy wheezes, shaking his sore hand. He’s so sure that he’s pulled a muscle in his arm for tossing the hook like a champion javelin thrower who knows that they only have one shot and they’d better make it fucking count.

“How?” Trottimus demands. He’s too rattled by the mixture of emotions assaulting his heart, head and body at seeing Alsmiffy alive. Plus Ross is not listening.

“Got lucky,” Alsmiffy simply says, revving the engine of his ride to keep up.

“What the fuck are you driving?” Trottimus’ mouth says because his brain’s given up on trying to figure out what’d happened. Alsmiffy should be  _ dead _ .

The thing Alsmiffy’s stolen looks like a bumper car had sprouted treadmills on either side in lieu of wheels and is operated with motorcycle handlebars. It’s colored a bright orange.

Well, Trottimus doesn’t hear what he says because Ross is upset about losing a free meal and has landed on the hood of the technical. Glass shatters as Ross’ claw punches through it to try to puncture Trottimus’ shield. Smoke is blown into Trottimus’ face, making his cough and his eyes to water. Ross doesn’t care about the distraction.

The technical spins when Trottimus lets go of the wheel. “Ross, no, it’s me!” Ross’ mouth closes on the technical frame. Annoyed by the metal thing in his way, Ross tears it off and spits it out, advancing.

A rolled up newspaper thwacks him on the wet nose. Nonplussed by the event, Ross stares at one enraged Trottimus.

“Bad boy! Ross, down!” Trottimus scolds. It’s hard to keep an authoritative voice when he’s bleeding in multiple places from the broken glass, has a bruise from the technical slamming him against everything that he thought didn’t exist in driver’s seat and is scared shitless of Ross flipping out like this. Still, he tries.

Ross decides that it’s not doing him any favours in satiating his hunger, trying to kill Trottimus again. Trottimus throws both arms up over his head. More metal crunches between Ross’ jaws. 

He opens his eyes to see Ross look disgusted at the broken surveyor in his mouth.

Driven by rage where Ross is driven by hunger, Trottimus lets out a battlecry that almost drags his lungs up and through his mouth, screaming, “ERIC!” He also promptly slugs Ross across the face and nearly breaks his knuckles.

Ross falls back on the technical, baffled by Trottimus demonstrating why he doesn’t want to be eaten. It’s not like it matters, because Trottimus has set the technical to cruise control, standing up on his feet to battle Ross.

Clearly he’s outmatched. Ross chuckles, an animal sound that’s like a growl bouncing off the inside of a metal drum.

A wall of fire divides them, singeing Ross’ fur and making him slam a claw against the technical. Alsmiffy shouts at Ross, “Hey! Dogbreath!” Ross ducks the fireball lobbed at him, turning to face Alsmiffy.

Alsmiffy’s seen Ross in all of his forms. This one is new and Alsmiffy is scared for Ross and what it means. He’s out of ideas. Fire is all he can pull off to distract Ross long enough so that Trottimus can get away.

They say that the two of them can’t teach an old dog new tricks; Ross has learned every trick in the book in trying to outdo his own nature or keep above it, determined not to repeat his own mistakes.

In his scant inventory, Alsmiffy scans the mess in the hopes of uncovering a clue to bring Ross back. 

Dog biscuits are probably nothing to Ross at this point, not when he’s tasted human flesh and developed a liking for it. Chocolate is also out of the question for the same reason; it’d probably make Ross puke. Puking is not what Alsmiffy wants to happen. What about Ross’ spare clothes? He might as well battle Ross with a paper bag.

Alsmiffy’s eyes settle on the last object in his inventory under his ‘Ross’ tab. His eyes take in Ross attempting to destroy Trottimus’ second surveyor trying to zap him into submission. 

Hunched in the back of the technical for protection, Trottimus cowers, looking as lost as Alsmiffy is.

“Ross,  _ fetch _ !” The squeaky, garishly neon pink chew toy bone flies through the air, past Ross’ face. Ross immediately turns his head to snap at it. The bone hits the side of the Murder Death Rally barricade, falling into the dust. 

The technical bounces when Ross leaps off it, going after the bone. In the drab arena, the pink stands out like a lighthouse beam cutting through thick fog. The toy emits shrill squeaks of protest as Ross begins to maul it, pinning it between both his claws.

Alsmiffy reaches the technical to haul himself into the driver’s seat, turning off cruise control and do a hairpin U-turn. Trottimus is clinging to the turret, his surveyor emitting a healing beam.

By the time they reach Ross, Ross is looking disgusted at the bone in his mouth. He plucks it out, dropping it into his inventory. Claws, fur and fangs retreat, leaving one ruffled, barefoot and naked to the waist Ross behind.

“Who the hell threw a bone at me?” He coughs, looking befuddled at the amount of blood and gore covering him. “Where are my boots?” He catches sight of Alsmiffy and Trottimus. “What happened to you two?” He tries to get to his feet, stumbling over how his muscles collapse from overexertion.

Trottimus directs his surveyor over, ignoring his own wounds. “I’ll explain later, but we did it. We got the head,” He weakly tells the other two. His pleased chuckle turns into a hiss of pain.

“Trott!” Ross manages to get Trottimus onto one bare, bloody shoulder. “No, please, what happened?” Enormous black-brown eyes plead Trottimus to tell him what happened.

“Later,” Trottimus repeats, looking at Alsmiffy. 

Alsmiffy is scratching the back of his head, not looking at either of them. “We’re on camera,” He says in a hushed voice. He points to the screen. There, he’s reflected, as are Ross and Trottimus. Trottimus and Ross look up to see themselves.

“Oh!” Trottimus opts for a nervous smile, managing a matching wave.

“I look a real mess,” Ross mutters. “Has my beard always been that shaggy?” He runs a hand through his beard to try to make it appear neater. He ends up smearing more blood into it.

“That’s it, smile and wave,” Alsmiffy says through grit teeth. His arm is killing him, making his grimace. The crowd loses it.

“We have our winners! Stunt Lads, please come up to the top, we have your grand prize…” BruteAlmighty booms.

The prize giving ceremony is a blur. Trottimus vaguely remembers his hand being shaken at least fifteen times by various bandits, twice by FyreUK and twenty times by Parvis (who’d also gifted his autograph and wanted the trio’s in return, before being dragged off by Sparkles, Kogie and Leo to another concert down south that they’re late for). 

He’s holding a suitcase with at least a thousand dollars. The room is full of drunk people, well wishers and guests who keep dragging him into conversations to replay and exaggerate bits of the Murder Death Rally, complete with reenactments and impersonations.

At this point, he’s getting sick of being asked to bring his surveyor out for the fifteenth time that night so that it can be manhandled into exploding (evidently, bandits liked explosions).

Swamped at the buffet table, Ross is turning down date invites and autograph requests, eventually screaming, “THAT’S NOT ME,” as his brain mixes up ‘That’s not cool’ and ‘Me hungry so back off or I’ll eat you next’.

Over in the corner, Alsmiffy is fighting off suitors, people keen to examine his gloves for their next arms development and fellow pyromaniacs.

He shoves over to Trottimus, panting. “I’m sick of this, let’s bail.”

“ _ How _ ? We’re stuck here until the party’s over.” And bandit parties could last for  _ hours.  _ By the looks of things, it’s only just getting started. Only twenty minutes have passed.

BruteAlmighty and IFirez call them over. “We want to get out of here too,” They whisper. “Except they liked our commentary so much, they keep asking us to use our outdoor voices. Please  _ help  _ or we’ll never speak again.”

“Hang on, didn’t we threaten you to rig the Sanctuary Hole vote?” Alsmiffy points out.

“Yeah,” IFirez confirms. “We remember you.” BruteAlmighty is only capable of nodding and signing.

“How come you’re not mad at us?” Alsmiffy demands.

“Eh, we don’t really go in for the whole ‘revenge’ thing,” IFirez interprets for BruteAlmighty’s signing. “We’re wimps, you see.”

“There’s a fire alarm we could pull,” Trottimus says.

“But they’ll notice if there’s no fire,” Alsmiffy points out (making sure not to sound too eager). “Shit, I’m out of gas,” He laments when he checks his inventory for any spare gas canisters.

Over by the buffet table, Ross flips it to hide behind it from the bandits who are clearly finding the ‘go hide and seek’ game a riot. The punch bowl goes flying to splat against the floor.

“How are you going to start a fire if you got no gas?” Trottimus smugly asks Alsmiffy.

Alsmiffy frowns at this challenge. Always considering it a victory when Alsmiffy can’t use his gloves, Trottimus is about to throw out another idea of his (sneak out, perhaps) when Alsmiffy smirks. That smirk is on the same level as Arsenal’s.

A rocket launcher spawns on Alsmiffy’s shoulder. Straining to keep it on his shoulder, Alsmiffy grunts as a gobsmacked FyreUK and Trottimus watch him. Ross jogs over after having trench crawled his way out of the drunk crowd following him around.

“Hey, what’s the rocket launcher for-” Ross’ question is answered by Alsmiffy launching a whistling barrage of rockets that obliterates the course of the Murder Death Rally in an explosion that can only be described as ‘a nuke but awesomer because it has lots of babies, all at the same time and they’re all on fire’.

Alsmiffy despawns the rocket launcher. “Ross, carry me,” He whines, sinking to the floor on his side. “I can’t feel my shoulder anymore.”

Ross silently scoops him up over his own shoulder. Together, he, Trottimus and FyreUK slip out of the party that’s turned into a search and rescue merged with ‘put out the fucking fire and who left the fireworks out again?’.

\--

“So, you did it,” Arsenal states. 

He’s throwing the head up and down in his hands like he would a basketball. Thoughtfully, somehow making it seem like an everyday occurrence to be treating the dead head of a former bandit in such a crude manner. Blood’s stopped pouring out of the stump long ago.

“Yeah, we did!” Ross says, hastily turning the end of his shout into a cough when Arsenal stares at him.

Arsenal smiles. “I didn’t think you could, but you Vault Hunters are capable of anything.” The smile is replaced by a frown, for a split second. The head’s mask in his hands wrinkles from the force of his grip. “I’d ask you to do something else for me, but nah.”

“What is it?” Trottimus asks so he doesn’t have to focus on the head being crushed in Arsenal’s hands.

“Better not be another Murder Death Rally,” Alsmiffy mutters. While Trottimus’ surveyor had healed him, he swears that his arm’s still got a bit of a pesky ache to it.

“It’s simpler than that, but don’t worry, I got it covered,” Arsenal vaguely says. He plops the head down onto the workbench, onto an empty tray. The head falls onto its side. “Time to keep to my side of the bargain.”

“What’s our reward?” Trottimus doesn’t mean to be so direct, but he’d rather not stick around any longer than he has to. He can hear sounds of another party being prepared down the hallway.

Arsenal doesn’t appear that keen to join it, having diverted Hat Corp. into the shooting range the second they rocked up with the head being held up high over Alsmiffy’s own (him being the tallest) as proof.

“Here.” Coordinates pop up in Trottimus’ HUD.

“Coordinates,” Trottimus observes in a flat tone. “These had better not be-”

“Fake? Hardly.” Arsenal scoffs. “These lead to an Eridium mine, free for you to raid. It’s hardly been touched. A buddy of mine passed them onto me before he vanished.”

“Why wouldn’t you want to mine it?” Trottimus muses over the value of Eridium. Certainly, it’s a rare metal that people demanded, often at high prices, largely because of how difficult it is to extract and process. The raw stuff garnered attention from mining companies, more so than the processed ingots. Eridium is one of Pandora’s lesser known industries.

“Oh, just not worth it,” Arsenal airily says. “You get to pass through our territory, thanks for your help, pleasure doing business with you, blah blah blah, now give me back-”

“I think we’ve intruded on your hospitality long enough!” Alsmiffy cuts in, grabbing Trottimus and Ross by the arm to tug the two towards the door.

The two Goliaths standing there refuse to budge. Arsenal limps up behind Alsmiffy. Arsenal’s tone could have cut through steel, disguised by his voice’s softness. “I think you’re forgetting to return something valuable of mine.”

“What? No, no, can’t have,” Alsmiffy fumbles, pretending to rummage through his pockets. He’s forced to let go of Trottimus and Ross to do so.

“Don’t make me hurt you,” Arsenal warns. “I’d rather not hurt people I like.”

“Oh, you like us?” Trottimus pretends to laugh. It sounds forced, especially when a Goliath is breathing down his neck.

“Don’t blame you for finding it hard to tell,” Arsenal conversationally says. “Until I break your collarbone, that is.” He’s limped close enough to stand up straight in front of Alsmiffy. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

Alsmiffy caves. He spawns the rocket launcher, handing it over to Arsenal with the air of a child being made to relinquish somebody else’s candy. Staring Alsmiffy in the eye, Arsenal tosses it over his shoulder, letting it despawn.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Arsenal notes.

Ross smartly throws Alsmiffy over his shoulder and strides out the door before Alsmiffy can set Arsenal on fire and incite a war between Hat Corp. and several hundred bandits. Trottimus (there’s no time for a proper bow; did bandits even appreciate bows?) bobs past the Goliaths, his face hurting from how much he’s smiling to hide his fear.

Fuck, Bandit Lords are a fucking terror to deal with, even the ones standing in for their buddy.

\--

The black market is located at Prosperity Junction consist of a bunch of stalls that could have passed for a flea market, but replace everybody chipper with a bunch of people who could press one’s face through the brick wall if one so much as looked at them wrong. Hence, Alsmiffy, Ross and Trottimus walk into the black market wearing sunglasses.

In Alsmiffy’s case, he just tints his gas mask’s lens. Ross claimed it didn’t make any fucking difference whatsoever, offending Alsmiffy. When Alsmiffy gets offended, he sulks. He’s been sulking the whole ride over in the turret. He perked up when Trottimus had stopped to buy grilled skag sausages, only to find out that the vendor had forgotten the sauce. 

Ross is munching on Alsmiffy’s sausage, his jaw working overtime to crunch through bits that originated from a skag and bits that might have been from a skag. Trottimus had dumped his on Ross after one mouthful, citing, “No thanks, I don’t want to be stuck on the loo for three days.”

“Then what was the point of buying those?” Ross says, spewing bits out of his mouth. In the back of the technical, the sacks of eridium chunks await their fate, politely and patiently as incredibly rare alien metal chunks ought to do.

“Being tourists,” Trottimus says, albeit rather flippantly. Anywhere (short of double parking or parking on someone) being a parking space in Prosperity Junction is a concept that Trottimus can get behind. 

After the one incident with Ross forgetting to eat on the last leg of the convoy journey and losing it in the Murder Death Rally by gorging on raw human flesh? Trottimus and Alsmiffy had hypothesized (while Ross showered off and put on some clothes, wearing Sips’ hideous gift of a shirt for the twentieth time) that if Ross starved himself like that ever again, the two can basically slit their own throats.

They’d gotten lucky during the Murder Death Rally in snapping Ross out of it. Next time, maybe not. So far, Trottimus has spent the past two nights ransacking his brain for any scrap of information he’d ever heard or knew about Ross’ condition. Hollie’s notes have fingerprints from how often he’d pored over them.

If Ross ever does that again, Trottimus needs a plan to put Ross out of commission until Ross well, stopped that. If he ever did. Could anybody tire out a werewolf by playing fetch for five hours? 

Hollie’s promised to send along all her other papers on the subject, so long as Trottimus agrees to send her periodic updates about Ross’ status. It’s touching, in a way, to have somebody else who’s not a part of Hat Corp. genuinely worry about Ross and not about his potential to rip off people’s heads in one go.

No longer do the days exist where Hat Corp. is on their own. If Hat Corp. plans to remain on Pandora, they might as well build up their network of contacts from scratch, so Trottimus’ little black book is busy gathering names.

Anyway, Alsmiffy and Trottimus have been supplementing Ross’ diet with additional food. Ross doesn’t question it, accepting the extra food. His metabolism’s been overactive since arriving on Pandora. Perhaps that’s the only noticeable effect so far, like Alsmiffy’s skin tanning five shades darker and Trottimus finding out that his skin resisted tanning and sunburn or any skin affliction, really.

When asked, Ross notes that his transformations have been easier to achieve. Not that Ross spends a lot of time in his other forms, favoring his human one for mobility, opposable thumbs and being able to gorge on chocolate on days with nothing to do. It’s like he doesn't exactly like being transformed unless he has to.

He also doesn’t remember his rampage. Alsmiffy and Trottimus had spent half an hour exploring all avenues (ink drawings, hangman, charades, even a desperately rigged game of ‘wine or cheese’) to jog Ross’ memory. Predictably, Ross looked hurt to any implication about murdering his two best friends, sagging on the spot. That’d drained Alsmiffy and Trottimus’ motivation to tell him the truth.

Obviously, they’ll have to tell him at some point. Alsmiffy and Trottimus aren’t sure who’s going to break it to Ross that yes, he did try to kill them. They’d better be fucking prepared to rip out their own hearts in the process, though.

Trottimus leads Alsmiffy and Ross into the thriving market. Ross is licking his fingers with the air of someone who doesn’t mind that Pandora’s meat cuisine being largely roadkill, wild game, scavenged carcasses and stuff with skin so leathered that it took fifteen minutes for anybody to get a mouthful down without choking. If the people who live on this planet are getting drunk while they eat, the trio don’t blame them.

Alsmiffy has both of his hands stowed in his pockets, slouching as he walks. He’s not interested in whatever is being sold, not unless it involves any variation of starting a blaze. 

All there is in this area of the black market is electronics. A lot of them seem thirdhand (and only on Pandora could such a word exist; like secondhand, only that it’s been through so many hands that it’s far easier to use thirdhand than to describe the goods as ‘manyhand’).

As usual, Trottimus is in full haggling mode, hands on his hips and attempting to look as dominating as possible when he’s shorter than everybody else in the black market. The moment a yawning Ross walks over to stickybeak, the vendor stops smirking and hastily gives Trottimus the full discount. Trottimus happily walks away with an armful of surveyor parts, even if half of them are afflicted with rust and dust that it leaves imprints on his hands.

Alsmiffy would have intervened (or the next five times), choosing to remain out of the dealings. Nah, Ross is following Trottimus around, slowly being laden down with the latter’s purchases. While the two are busy, Alsmiffy glances around for anybody willing to buy a sackful of eridium.

He doesn’t get ‘anybody’, he gets Lalnable Hector patting a bandit on the back sympathetically (as sympathetically as someone can look with a mouth set in a thin line to the point of their lips paling) instead.

Lalnable’s cut his hair. The ponytail that’d existed before had been lopped off. In its place is short hair, almost shoulder-length. How it’s cleaner than all the hair that Alsmiffy’s seen to date is something he’d like to know.

The swaying, drunk bandit sniffs, raising their stitched arm to peer suspiciously at the black crosses keeping their skin from flapping loosely. Lalnable Hector slaps the hand that rises to touch it.

“Leave it, it’ll dissolve on its own,” He says sharply. The bandit meekly lets the slapped hand drop, nodding.

“How much do we owe you for patching them up?” grunts the stall owner. “That’s the last time we sell power tools that people can try out. It’s a good thing you’re here, doc.”

“It’s Lalnable,” Lalnable says testily, “not doc.”

“Sure thing, doc,” the stalker owner says. “Here, help yourself.” They shove a box of skag jerky towards Lalnable.

“I don’t eat-”

“Think of it as a gift!” The stall owner leaves the box in Lalnable’s hands, dragging their drunken friend off to the back to sleep it off.

At this point, Alsmiffy’s by Lalnable, wondering if it’s the same doctor from several months ago. Yeah, no, it’s definitely him. 

It’s hard to forget an expression like that on someone so short and yet, commandeered an air of respect from being able to deal with somebody’s guts spilling out of them without fainting, screaming or barfing. Lalnable rolled up his sleeves and got straight to work.

“Hey-” Alsmiffy begins, wanting to catch his attention.

“Here, you have this,” Lalnable says absently, handing Alsmiffy the box. Not caring if the stall owner is watching or not, Lalnable turns to go and bumps into Alsmiffy. “Excuse me, you’re in the way.”

“Do you remember me?” Alsmiffy says before Lalnable can vanish into the crowd.

“Look, can you please move out of my way?” Scowling, Lalnable looks up at Alsmiffy. Whatever additional remark Lalnable had prepared dies on his lips.

“ _ You. _ ” Lalnable’s face goes wooden. He grabs Alsmiffy by the tie, yanking Alsmiffy’s face down to his level. “Did your friend live?”

“Yeah, he did, now fucking let go of my tie!” Alsmiffy splutters, almost choking from the grip on his tie. Why did people always go for the tie?

Ross lifts Lalnable away by the back of the shirt. “What do you think you’re doing?” He growls. When he sees Lalnable’s face, he drops him automatically, adopting an apologetic expression. “Doctor!”

“It’s Lalnable!” Lalnable says, dusting himself off (never mind how he’d never fallen to the ground). “What part of that is so hard to pronounce around here?”

“Hey, Ross, why’d you leave, I had another thing to add to the pile-” Trottimus elbows his way over. When he catches sight of Lalnable, Trottimus stares. He points at Lalnable, to Alsmiffy, then to Ross, saying nothing despite his mouth moving.

“Let’s move somewhere else, people are staring,” Ross proposes. He picks up Trottimus, who is still gesturing and saying nothing.

“Come back to my clinic,” Lalnable stiffly offers. “I need to talk to you anyway.”

\--

Lalnable’s clinic scores as the cleanest place Trottimus has been in on Pandora, tying neatly with Hollie and Berym’s clinic on Elpis.

In the kitchen, Parvis is almost kicked out for being a constant nuisance. That is, pestering Hat Corp. for handshakes, selfies, another series of autographs and a request to make a joint video after the spectacular, unforgettable Murder Death Rally.

“People are still talking about that one, even on the west coast because-” Parvis babbles enthusiastically, nearly spilling his own coffee all over the table with his enthusiastic gesticulations.

“Parvis, go home, you’ve been here for an extra two hours,” Lalnable tiredly says. That’s it, no more coffee for Parvis.

“But I-” Parvis pauses when Lalnable nods at the door, raising both eyebrows. He gets the hint. “See you tomorrow! You three will still be here, right?” 

“ _ Parvis _ ,” Lalnable grounds out.

“Bye!” Parvis flees before he can suffer further.

“Bring back my mug tomorrow!” Lalnable shouts. Hat Corp. shifts on their borrowed chairs, trying their best to look like that they hadn’t enjoyed that entertaining interaction. With a sigh, Lalnable gazes at the three. “You’re overdue for a checkup.” A point indicates Trottimus. Another point indicates Ross. “You too. Hollie tells me that you need a doctor to keep an eye on you.”

“You know Hollie?” Ross is stunned.

“Of course I do.” Lalnable snorts. “She had to give me a crash course in midwifery, and helped set up me up here on Pandora. We went to medical school together.”

“Thanks.” Ross smiles at him.

“I’m not doing it because I’m nice, I’m doing it because I owe her,” Lalnable says. “We’re not even.”

“Sure, sure,” Trottimus says, seeing right through Lalnable’s ruse and smiling.

“Don’t I get a check-up?” Alsmiffy points out, a little miffed. His arm’s still hurting, even if Trottimus and Ross think he’s fibbing.

“It’ll cost you,” Lalnable immediately says.

“How about I pay you with these babies?” Alsmiffy spawns a chunk of eridium. The effect is immediate; Lalnable shoves away from the table, almost tipping it over.

“Put that away this instant!” He snaps at Alsmiffy.

“What? It’s not hurting me or you,” Alsmiffy jokes, holding it closer to Lalnable. Lalnable could have speared Alsmiffy to the wall with his glare. 

“It could!” Lalnable counters. “Eridium is very volatile in its raw state!” Oh. Well. Alsmiffy carefully puts it away. “Or so I’ve read. We actually don’t know much about it, but all the people who’ve been exposed to it start to lose their faculties. Eventually.”

“That would explain a lot,” Ross mutters. Alsmiffy kicks him under the table for that.

“Why are you running around with your pockets full of eridium?” Lalnable only sits down again once he sees that Alsmiffy is not going to be waving a hunk of glowing purple rock in his face. “That’s not good for you, especially for your skin grafts.”

“It’s a long story,” Trottimus sighs. He concentrates on the table’s grainy surface and the heat of the mug of wonderful coffee in his hands. “Please, don’t worry, I haven’t been touching the stuff.” Only Alsmiffy has, since he’s the only one with gloves to begin with.

“Please start at the beginning,” Lalnable dryly encourages, settling in to listen. “I’d like to know how you ended up on Pandora. As with every other person who I know appears to be bent on getting hurt in every way possible.”

“It all started when I almost died from Alsmiffy being a giant fucking twat...”

Alsmiffy sits up straighter, shuts the fuck up and listens to Trottimus’ tale begin to unfold, aware that it’s finally time that Trottimus lays it out bare. No more lies, only truth, for him, Alsmiffy and Ross.

\--

\- / / TForce is no longer idle. / / -

TForce: You know those the files you wanted?

Trottimus: What about them?

TForce: I know where they are.

TForce: There’s just a teensy problem.

TForce: Well, not teensy. More like fucking big.

Trottimus: What is it?

TForce: They’re behind a firewall so locked that not even my best setup going at full power can crack it.

TForce: You’re gonna have to do it manually.

Trottimus: Hm.

Trottimus: I expected so.

Trottimus: No file should have taken you this long to get or break into.

TForce: I really tried, man.

TForce: Cut a guy some slack for even trying, you ungrateful prick!

TForce: Okay, after this, we’re square.

Trottimus: Sure.

Trottimus: These coordinates lead to Arid Nexus.

TForce: That's right.

TForce: Hyperion Info Stockade’s still standing in the Arid Nexus.

TForce: That’s Hyperion for you.

TForce: FyreUK’s Fast Travel Station should get you there.

Trottimus: Thanks.

TForce: Good luck on your ‘How to Kill a Siren’ plan.

Trottimus: Oh, don’t worry, I don’t want to kill a Siren.

TForce: What? Then what are you planning to do?

Trottimus: I just want to see if I can control one.

TForce: WTF?

TForce: That’s fucked up.

TForce: In so many ways

Trottimus: Just kidding. 

TForce: Shit, you had me there for a sec.

Trottimus: Or am I?

TForce: I HAD NO PART OF THIS EVILDOING.

Trottimus: Relax, you’re in the clear, friend.

Trottimus: Pleasure doing business with you.

TForce: I don’t like being referred to as ‘friend’ since you make it sound so ominous.

Trottimus: I’ll be seeing you around, friend ;)

TForce: GO AWAY ALREADY.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (all’s well that ends well?)
> 
> this chapter was something. by something, i mean hella fun to write. i’ve had this chapter planned out for a long time, beginning with the heist involving sips, plus the scenes involving sips, lalnable, pyrionflax, arsenal and mintyminute. this chapter also includes a lot of references to other events as well! have fun picking those out.
> 
> thank you to teagstime for always listening and facilitating the growth of new ideas. i’d also like to give thanks to the person who suggested alsmiffy possessing the ‘pyrophobia’ legendary (while he didn’t get to keep it, he was happy for as long it lasted). i’d also like to thank calibornsenpai for suggesting ‘stunt lads’ as the alternative name for hat corp. your ask was submitted and answered all the way back in august last year. it took a year for it to finally to show up but i hope i did it justice in this chapter.
> 
> the many scenes here actually evolved from my notes and deviated into what you’ve just read. that’s always a pleasant surprise and something that i’ve just learned to roll with, in regards to this au and the characters within it. how the characters develop over the course of this au is also a joy to see as well, whether it’s positive or negative development. the three’s arcs will wrap up in the next chapter.
> 
> this fic has one more chapter left. that chapter will take place in the future of ‘tlvh’, as of this chapter’s posting. for now, i aim to get back to planning that, chapter ten of ‘tlvh’ and the second chapter of ‘a bullet with your name on it’. for now, the plan is get ‘tlvh’ chapter ten out as soon as possible since that’s the fic for october.
> 
> thank you for reading. all the doodles done by the stunning siins are located over [here](http://borderlandscast.tumblr.com/tagged/beyond-the-borderlands%3A-what%27s-yours-is-ours) as usual!


	3. machinations.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a pyromaniac, a werewolf and a technician further their schemes by being their usual selves on pandora. 
> 
> as the magic of their arrival begins to wear off, the three begin to consider thoughts of revenge towards the siren that’d crossed them. a plan forms. but first, the three have do some thinking, and thinking’s never been any one of their strengths. 
> 
> still, three heads are better than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter features the usual amount of guns and fists. there’s just one warning for thoughts on cannibalism (regarding the aftermath about the murder death rally that happened all the way back in chapter one). that’s about it for warnings! this is a pretty tame chapter, as far as things go.

“And that’s the whole story.” Trottimus flattens his hand on the table, all fingers splaying against the scratched, dark brown wood. The wood’s riddled with coffee cup stains like Lalnable’s never heard of table coasters. “I swear that what I told you is true,  _ all  _ of it.”

Across from him, Lalnable’s mouth is set into a line. The cheap blue pen in one hand clicks in a final sort of way. He’d made  _ notes _ . Now that’s the kind of pragmatic dedication Trottimus can get behind. 

“When you put it like that, I don’t think I could not believe you.”

“So, can I skip out on the check up?” Trottimus dares to ask, removing his hand from the table. He double checks that his beady eyes are still solemn for extra effect.

Following standard routine, he’d dressed up the story in places. Neither Ross or Alsmiffy had minded a bit of exaggerated fibbing, going so far as to contribute generous helpings of tweaked fiction on his behalf. 

Lying outright to a doctor (especially the one who’d saved his life months ago) elicits a feeling that Trottimus didn’t feel often. It’s classic guilt, which is quashed by his need to keep the facts straight, and his face as blank as a piece of paper.

With a sniff, Lalnable says, “Even if you seem in be in relatively good health, I recommend one.” There’s the tiniest and insistent emphasis on second last word.

Welp, that goes against what Trottimus had been angling for. He slumps down. Like a corkscrew boring into wood, those words wind deep into his rapidly calculating mind until he sits up, peering intensely at the speaker of those words. 

“But I don’t actually  _ need _ to get one?” He questions, not hiding the hope in his eyes. 

The preliminary scans seemed clear of any faults or dangerous growths. That’s good enough for him, even if he’s asking to get run through by the ‘no news is good news’ sword.

“Correct.” Lalnable adopts a look so full of severe disapproval that Trottimus nearly upturns all his pockets (even the hidden ones) on the spot for banned items and illegal contraband. “I can’t make you have an examination if you don’t want one.” It sounds like he’d rather not be giving away that bit of valuable information. 

He has nothing to worry about, Trottimus can keep a secret (and much worse, to the grave with him).

“Then my business is concluded here,” Trottimus says, injecting a dose of bolstering cheerfulness into his smile. 

He’s all good, no need to waste further time hanging around for news that he already knows about. With Trottimus already on his feet, Lalnable can’t help but mirror him.

At that declaration, Lalnable’s face twists into befuddled incomprehension like nobody would dare to leave his clinic, not without a checkup of any kind. His shoulders had tensed without his knowing.

“Look, I’d really advise-” Seizing the moment, Trottimus swiftly gets a hand around Lalnable’s rigid shoulders, steering him towards the kitchen doorway.

“My good doctor, you must have other patients to attend to!” Trottimus warbles in a sing-song voice, ditching the kitchen. “I’m hardly worth your time as you’d pointed out six times in your commentary!”

That elicits a shrill, indignant noise from Lalnable. Thanks to Trottimus’ speedy gait, the two are already in the waiting room, where Ross is located. 

Dropping the bored look upon seeing him, Ross springs up from the chair he’d squeezed into. Trottimus continues past him, right out into the harsh sunlight.

Only then, does Trottimus release Lalnable. “And good day to you, kind sir!” He busies with striding off to the technical, not sparing a glance over his shoulder. 

Ross bounds after him, looking dreadfully confused with the whole ‘why are you being chummy with the doctor’ act.

Without another word and a glare, Lalnable parts ways with the two. Turning on his heel, he strides down the other corridor, loudly grumbling under his breath about the stupidity of  _ some _ people. He dusts his shoulder off like Trottimus’ hand had left dust there.

Trottimus exhales, leaning against the side of the technical with an arm thrown over the steering wheel. Ross hovers by him. 

“You didn’t get an examination,” He observes in a concerned tone.

Somewhere in the middle of the story, Hollie had contacted Lalnable. Ross had opted for the follow-up procedure. It’d featured a live ECHO call featuring Hollie on the line to guide Lalnable through the process. Werewolves needed a suite of extra tests. Much to Hollie and Lalnable’s satisfaction, Ross had passed with flying colours. 

He hadn’t found a moment to tell them that he’d been feeling ‘off’ since the Murder Death Rally. ‘Off’ about what, he can’t put it into words, so he’d kept silent about it.

Lalnable had been rather cordial and less grouchy towards her, an unusual enough event. Ross wouldn’t have a clue about it; he tries his best to stem the bad memories associated with the first time he’d met him.

“You’re sniffing me again,” Trottimus absently says. He edges away from Ross’ face.

Ross had a habit of sniffing people, often when he drifted into another person’s bubble of personal space. If it’s conscious, Ross doesn’t appear to realise he’s doing it, nor does he get embarrassed. He tended to do it when he’s fretting (like his beatboxing, except more discrete). It’s rare for Ross to properly fret, given his easygoingness towards Pandora and what the rest of the universe served him.

“Well, you smell healthy anyway.” For a long time, Trottimus had smelled like  _ hurt _ , its rawness corrupted by almost every single kind of anger possible, after Alsmiffy’s malicious deed. These days, Trottimus smelled more like himself, all calculated intent and breezy confidence. It pleases Ross. Course, it won’t ever be the same but it’s back one way or another.

Ross peels away from his friend to hoist himself up and into the technical’s turret. He winces from the heated leather colliding with his butt. Unless stated otherwise, Trottimus is designated driver. Posted in the back, Alsmiffy is the backup, armed with both flamethrower gauntlets and guns.

Speaking of which, Trottimus hasn’t seen said any hint of the blue, striped suit or a custom-painted gas mask lurking around to surprise him on the way out of the clinic.

“Where’s Alsmiffy?” There’s not even the familiar smell of singed cloth that the two usually associate with a certain troublemaker.

“Dunno,” Ross says, sniffing the air. Alsmiffy’s bound to still be nearby, if Ross can still pick up traces of him on the wind. “He snuck off with that nurse,” He confides in a whisper, leaning down.

“That was a nurse?” Trottimus glances around for Parvis. Parvis had all the appearance and mannerisms of a bandit. Trottimus would go so far as to say that Parvis had even been born on Pandora, if his accent’s anything to go by.

“Apparently so,” Ross muses, amusing himself with the thought of what it’d take to lure Alsmiffy away. 

Explosives, definitely. Food served without all the bells and whistles of upper class, possibly. A nice rocket launcher that Alsmiffy could actually lift? Well, that one had happened, but a second time might work.

Several metres away, the sound of boots thump against the clinic’s floor like an army’s about to knock. The door explodes open, the hinges nearly snapping off as the metal gets dented from an almighty shove.

“Parvis! Stop selling fireworks to my patients!” Lalnable’s enraged shout accompanies two people nearly falling over one another in their haste to escape.

A gleeful looking Parvis skids along the hand-stitched welcome mat. He blurs past Trottimus and Ross, going for the parked technical by the Fast Travel Station. It takes off down the road, wheels spinning. Parvis’ maniacal laughter fades like the resulting dust cloud.

PIcking himself up off the ground, Alsmiffy strolls towards his friends. He’s pleased, almost, judging by the amount of swagger in his step. Trottimus starts up the technical. He drives it away from the clinic before Lalnable can appear at the entrance to change his mind about the examination.

“Sup losers!” Alsmiffy greets, over the sound of the engines and wind.

“What were you buying?” Trottimus eyes Alsmiffy in the side mirror. Compared to Ross’ imagination, explosives and flammables are the only items that Trottimus knows will attract Alsmiffy’s attention.

“Oh, nothing. Dude just flashed me and ran off,” Alsmiffy enigmatically says. There’s a hook dangling, waiting for Trottimus and Ross to bite.

“Ew,” Ross flatly says, before obliging. “What’d you actually buy?”

“Fireworks, I bet,” Trottimus remarks. Fun to watch, not so much, when setting up or nearly being capped in the knees by a loose one.

Reeling him and Trottimus (by extension) in, Alsmiffy reclines in the back of the technical, allowing himself to appear and sound the smuggest he’s ever been since offing Focker. “Oh, I wasn’t buying,” He confesses, “I was  _ selling _ .”

“No wonder why you reek,” Ross complains. “You don’t smell like yourself.” 

Despite the wind from the front as the technical plows down the hill towards the power station, he can still make out a trace of Parvis’ clean, clinical and ‘so slight but present nonetheless’ damp scent.

“You mean he doesn’t smell like a pissbaby?” Trottimus feigns shock after giving an exaggerated sniff that has Ross snickering.

“Fuck off, you smell like...Tediore soap that’s been sitting in water for too long!” Not one of Alsmiffy’s better comebacks, that’s for sure.

“Mouldy is the word,” Trottimus smugly corrects. “What, did Parvis rub himself all over you?”

“Did you let him?” Ross jeers. “That’s one way to get your attention!”

“The closet was very  _ small _ , alright?” Alsmiffy huffs, flaming a skag running alongside the technical. 

He grabs the reeking corpse to lug it up into the back. Delicious, but he’ll be keeping at the best bits once Ross strips it down to the edible parts.

\--

DELIVERED BY: L.N.

PERSONAL DELIVERY NOTES TO OTHER COURIERS: 

HAD TO HONK FIVE TIMES BEFORE THE PANTING ADDRESSEE APPEARED AT GATE. LIVING UNDERGROUND HAS ITS DOWNSIDES. PLEASE BE PATIENT WHEN DROPPING OFF ITEMS AT SOUTHPAW STEAM AND POWER STATION.

Dear Alsmiffy,

Here on Elpis, Concordia is as quiet as always. I can see Pandora from here, and I wonder where you go these days. I know you don’t tell me what happens, but I like to think that you’re on some kind of grand adventure.

Next time, take me with you. I was born on Pandora, but one day, I’d love to see the universe so that I can see if your stories are all true, or you’re a terrible liar.

I’ve been babysitting as usual for Minty (and I don’t know what you’re on about because she is a good person but you’re always mean anyway so maybe that’s why she doesn’t like you very much but don’t worry, I like you a lot).

Last week I learned how to play ‘three skags and a bottle of scrumpy’ on my harmonica and everyone in the Captive Creeper clapped when I was done playing! I owe it all to your recommended songs! 

Maybe one day I’ll head down to Pandora and go on tour, if the sightseeing doesn’t work out. You can be my manager if you stop setting things (except for people who boo) on fire. Your two friends can be stagehands.

Or maybe I’ll just play for you. I’ve also learned lots of new songs from that book you sent me too. Thank you for thinking of me!

Minty says to remind me to remind you that she hopes that you’ve delivered that page to Rythian and not kept it. That page might be very super important to him.

There, now she can stop reading over my shoulder as I write this- ow. She has eyes in the back of her head, I swear. I will now stop talking about her.

Since you asked in your last letter, I’ll tell you this: did you know that some bad Hyperion people tried to blow up Elpis? Helios used to have a giant weaponized laser and it almost destroyed the moon by blowing it up. A lot of people would have died, myself included. People could see the laser firing from down on Pandora, but couldn’t help us because it’s Hyperion, and nobody cares once Hyperion gets involved.

Fortunately, Vault Hunters hired by Hyperion saved the day. However, Hyperion and those Vault Hunters became jackasses shortly after they opened the Vault on Elpis. Hyperion sent robots to take back Concordia after Minty became sheriff! She did all their dirty work for them, while they just stood back. Everybody knows that Hyperion fucked up lots of shit on Pandora and here, so lots of people hate them.

If you don’t hate Hyperion, we can’t be friends. I still have nightmares about waking up and seeing that Concordia is just another crater on Elpis. Well, not like it matters, because I’ll be dead then. I’m sorry, this got really sad. Here, have a smiley face to cheer you up. :)

Minty kicked their asses and sent them packing. Zylus set up the defensive cannons a few months after (with some help from Rythian and Teep and if you ever meet Teep, tell them ‘thanks, I have mastered pistol spinning with one hand, and can now sorta sharpshoot’).

I have to go and tell Pyrionflax to come in to swap for surveillance duty so I will see you later! Please write back soon!

Your fav penpal,

Bluari

P.S.: What are your fav colors? I am totally not knitting and am making you something to keep your hands warm. Knitting is my new hobby because the neighbours complained about the harmonica practice.

\--

Trottimus, Ross and Alsmiffy arrive at the Fast Travel Station outside of FyreUK’s radio station compound. Memories jogged, Ross and Alsmiffy turn to one another, grinning. 

The last time they’d been here, they’d caused a considerably sized hole in the roof of the building and left the recording room in shambles due to crashing through with a flying technical.

As agreed upon, the trio plod through the stretch of empty desert underneath the remnants of Hyperion’s eridium ventures. Behind them is the wall blocking off a shortcut to Fyrestone, thanks to FyreUK’s efforts to pen themselves in from angry listeners, and the numerous threats that roamed Pandora’s surface in search of their next meal or victim.

Shields running at full power and on temperature control prevent the sun from causing any real damage. The temperature in the Arid Nexus could melt a ration bar in five seconds flat. It’s worth the shield battery being drained twice as fast, and is far nicer than dying due to heatstroke.

This time, Trottimus walks all the way over to the front gate. A finger pushes the buzzer button. It takes two tries to get it to depress. The sand filled speaker mounted on the gate crackles, coughing dust as it activates.

“Who’s there?” warily barks a familiar voice. As the security camera overhead swivels to see the three beaming at it, the voice groans, “Oh,  _ no _ , it’s you two again.” Alsmiffy and Ross manage enthusiastic waves of their hands.

“We’re not here to threaten you,” Ross reassures.

“This time, that is,” Alsmiffy adds.

“What do you want?” BruteAlmighty demands. He grunts, likely from IFirez elbowing him aside.

“We don’t want any more trouble!” IFirez shouts through the speaker. Feedback punctuates the sound of his dismayed voice with more of a heftier impact than usual.

“Calm down, we want just access to the Hyperion Info Stockade.”

“Why?”

“You don’t need to know why, but I can tell you is that your fucking wall’s blocking the way in,” Trottimus reveals, keeping his eyes on the security camera fixated on him.

“The Hyperion Info Stockade?” BruteAlmighty and IFirez confer for about half a minute in hushed whispers. Fragments of conversation filter through the speaker.

“Why do they want-”

“We can’t-”

“Well,  _ obviously _ !”

“But think of the-”

“...Marshmallows!”

“Oh, we’re out again?”

And so forth.

Ross rolls his eyes. “We’ll give you ten minutes! If you don’t cooperate, we’re breaking in again, and this time, we brought Trott!” With his knuckles, Ross taps the metal wall besides the speaker, impatiently adding, “You won’t like what he can do!”

“He’ll jizz all over your wall!” Alsmiffy declares. “You’d like  _ that _ , wouldn’t you!” The speaker is silent.

There’s a beat as Trottimus hands his gun over to Ross. His boots shuffle over sand, creating a ragged circle of dust until he’s facing the wall under the speaker. The lab coat’s hitched up.

With a sadistic grin exposing his canines, Trottimus flicks the metal catch holding his pants up, making a busy show of fiddling with the button and zipper under his fingers. The button’s popped loose, the lazy, downwards drag of the zipper capturing the attention of all those watching.

“Jizz, jizz, jizz, jizz!” Alsmiffy and Ross begin to war chant, Ross stamping out a beat as Alsmiffy provides nearly all the ferociously gleeful shouting that he’s so fond of doing.

Trottimus whistles an upbeat tune, treating this like it’s an everyday activity. Yep, jizzing all over a wall’s routine, don’t be so shocked.

A deafening plea blasts out of the speaker as both BruteAlmighty and IFirez scream, “Please don’t jizz all over our wall!”

“You sure?” Trottimus feigns disappointment by letting his smirk slide off his face.

“We’re sure!”

Trottimus zips up his pants, taking his gun back from Ross. “Well then, better open up quick!” Ross and Alsmiffy snort.

“If we let you in, you have to promise not to enter our building or blow up our wall.”

“Or jizz on it.”

“Deal-” Trottimus agrees. Behind him, Alsmiffy and Ross look the slightest bit disappointed. Ross is actually drooping. Even his wiry, mangled beard seems to sag on itself.

“Hold up, would you like to be our impromptu guests on the radio?” IFirez proposes. “We got an empty slot in ten because our usual guest can’t make it. We really need someone to cover while we get some more music lined up!”

“Please!” BruteAlmighty chimes in. “It’d help us out a lot!”

“Guests?” Ross mumbles, awed by the preposition.

“On the radio?” Alsmiffy sounds baffled at the prospect. Underneath his breath, he mutters, “Weird, after Trott nearly jizzed on your wall.”

“We’ll get back to you about that, if you don’t mind.” Trottimus huddles up with Ross and Alsmiffy as the buzzer crackles, cutting the feed to FyreUK. “We’ll be on the radio! This is our chance to plug Hat Corp. to a larger audience!” He whispers, his shallow ego (well, including his friends’ ones) proving flattered by the proposal.

“Yeah!” If Ross had been in his other form, his tail would be wagging nonstop. “But wait, what are we going to talk about on the radio?”

“We just talk about...stuff,” Alsmiffy ponders. “Or whatever FyreUK wants to talk about, I guess.”

“I guess I can talk to them about CLL,” Ross muses out loud, perking up. “More people need to be aware of-”

“You’ve been reading Hollie’s papers?” Trottimus interrupts. No wonder why half his collection of papers seems to have been clearly rifled through, with a paper going missing every week or so.

‘Well, yeah.” Ross’ cheeks look pink under the sun. “I couldn’t help it, it’s full of interesting stuff! Did you know that the reason why I’m so hairy and ripped is because I got more testosterone than normal folks-”

“You can talk about it on the radio later,” Alsmiffy cuts in, pretending to yawn. His hand waves in front of his mask. “Where people can’t nod off in front of you-”

“Oh yeah, then what are  _ you _ going to talk about?” Ross retorts. “Jizz, probably!”

“Fuck you and your tiny balls!”

“I do not have tiny balls!”

“Then it’s tiny diiiccckkk,” Alsmiffy sneers, nearly headbutting him.

Ross opens his mouth to respond in an abysmally fake, high pitched, outraged voice, “How  _ dare _ you!”

Trottimus lifts his head to the sky, wondering why he’s stuck with these two morons. He lets them have thirty seconds of insulting each other’s anatomies to let them get it out of their systems.

“Oi! Back to the topic at hand!” He roughly shakes his two companions by the shoulders. “You were saying, Alsmiffy?” He says in a conversational tone. Alsmiffy and Ross quickly drop the banter like it’s one of Sips’ failed attempts at a bagel.

“I’m going to talk about, uh, how there needs to be a more supportive environment for artists and musicians.” Alsmiffy pauses to cough, perhaps not used to speaking so eloquently or at length about such pursuits. “Pandora’s cultural development fucking sucks, and it’s not because half the population can’t read or write. It’s really  _ hard  _ to a good book on this planet that’s not porn magazines or gun catalogues-”

“I was just going to talk about dick jokes and jizz, but you two seem to have better ideas.” Trottimus shakes his head. Ross and Alsmiffy continue bickering about who has the superior topic. The huddle breaks apart once Trottimus ambles over to the gate’s speaker. “We’ll be your guests.”

“Gee, thank you! That really helps! You won’t regret this! We’ll be live in five and doing this over ECHO so if we call you, please pick up!” IFirez gushes before the speaker falls quiet.

The gate rolls open without creaking, allowing the three to enter. The trek to the next region within Arid Nexus leads to Fyrestone. Fyrestone is practically right on top of the trio’s destination.

As a ghost town set in the middle of the desert surrounded by abandoned skag dens, Fyrestone isn’t that notable in the mess-ridden history books, aside from being the site of one of Hyperion’s first renovations to reportedly turn Pandora into bandit-free planet. 

Ever since that aspiration’s lurched to a perpetual halt, people and wildlife have been taking advantage of the free accommodations left behind by Hyperion’s construction. 

That is, until FyreUK rocked up with their construction workerbots and the promise of free music, speech, and protective wall. All the residents had to do was shove off to Sanctuary Hole. 

It’d seemed to be a fair trade, for the bored residents (who’re also tired of being attacked by hungry skags camping next to the gate in and out of the ramshackle and isolated settlement).

These days, Fyrestone’s one of the luckier places where people still haven’t dared to move in for whatever reason. FyreUK’s lone workerbot cruises at a comfortable height to track the three Vault Hunters.

“And Trottimus is taking the lead, walking through the graveyard just next to the old clinic! Today the weather’s hot enough to make you sweat out that glass of water you just drank, assuming you have water, and if not, you can buy yourself a gallon fresh from the RSS, that’s the ‘Ration Subscription Service’, brought to you by the Dahl corporation, who are kindly sponsoring a 1% discount off selected goods...”

“We apologize but our usual guest, Ravs, is currently away on personal business. Don’t worry, he’ll be back at the usual time next week!”

“That’s right, best of luck for whatever he’s up to. In the meantime you keep sending those fan letters in! But anyway, our guests are approaching the Hyperion Info Stockade.”

“That Stockade’s still standing somehow. Sometimes I forget it’s there if I haven’t had enough coffee yet.”

“That’s Hyperion for you, they can make anything that’ll keep standing even if it gets pissed on by skags or shat on by rakks!”

“Haha, let’s keep it PG 13 on here! Looks like our guests are about to experience one of the Arid Nexus’ best surprises. Let’s check in our guests, shall we?”

“Hello Trottimus, Ross and Alsmiffy! How’s the Arid Nexus treating you?”

“Good, because there’s so much dust that it’s fogging up my gas mask!”

“It smells weird around here, like oil and eridium shit. It makes me want to cut off my nose!”

“That’ll be the junkyard and the eridium pipes, you idiots.”

“Trottimus is right on the money, there used to be eridium refineries running through this place, up until Hyperion pulled the plug on that fracking operation. Oooh, I do so love a good pun.” 

“I hear that Sipsco. and Flux Inc., are duking it out over who’ll get ownership of this plot of land. That battle’ll be ending soon, according to a very reputable source. We’ll be covering that story later tonight, so tune in later for that!”

“So, what do you people talk about on the radio?”

“Ross, you’re asking stupid questions again.”

“No question’s stupid, with the right context!”

“Coming from anyone else but you, that is.”

“Sounds like you three are having tons of fun. Where are you currently at? We’re tracking you with a workerbot, but we’d like to personally hear from you.”

“We’re trying to get through a gate.”

“Please, talk us through the process! We’ve never interviewed Vault Hunters before, and would love a first-hand account.”

“Well, if you’re in a major rush, you can have Ross here claw or bite the lock off. Since he’s got a toothache and is being a little bitch about it at the moment, he’s not going to do that. Alsmiffy’ll just melt the lock right off.”

“Ross is a werewolf?”

“Yeah, that’s right! The correct term is ‘compulsive lunar lycanthropy’ and it’s a very rare condition-”

“We’ve heard a little about it! It can’t be easy living with CLL.”

“Ehh, it’s not so bad on Pandora. I can transform more easily here-”

“As I was saying, if the lock doesn’t want to be opened with flames, I just break out my surveyor-”

“Trott, I was talking about CLL!”

“They asked us about how to open locks, not CLL!”

“Lock’s open, boys! Did you see that sick flame just now...”

“So, any last words before you became mincemeat?”

“...Sorry, but can you please repeat the question? We’re not sure if we heard you right.”

“Of course. I asked if you had any last words before you became mincemeat?”

“That’s a weird question. Are you sure you asked us right?”

“Nope, we at FyreUK are super positive we asked that question correctly.”

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT THING?”

“IT’S A FUCKING MASSIVE LOADER ON THE HIGHWAY!”

“IT’S COMING FOR US!”

“GET DOWN!”

“ROSS, YOU CAN’T RUN UP TO IT AND BITE IT.”

“MY TOOTH! IT KNOCKED OUT MY LOOSE TOOTH! HAHA, FUCK YES, NO MORE FUCKING TOOTHACHE!”

“IT’S NOT MELTING! SHIT!”

“GET BACK, IT’S TRYING TO MISSILE US INTO GIBLETS!”

“ _ HOMING MISSILES _ ?  _ WHAT IS THIS BULLSHIT _ ?”

“WE’RE GOING TO DIE-”

“NO, ERIC-”

“Dear listeners, what you are hearing now are the hysterical screams of three Vault Hunters being attacked by the Hyperion Info Stockade’s watchdog, a thirty metre tall behemoth of a Loader called ‘Saturn’. Saturn is very committed to its job of repelling intruders from the info stockade!”

“It certainly is! It destroyed about three of our workerbots trying to put up our wall in that area before we figured out that Saturn does a better job than a wall will ever do!”

“I’m. I’m crying tears. I also might have wet myself.”

“Are you seeing this? The Vault Hunters are still fighting Saturn. You can catch the actual feed on our corner of the ECHOnet!”

“Oooh, ouch, Saturn just curbstomped Ross! Ross dodges, and it’s a lucky hit on Saturn’s side turret!”

“There goes Alsmiffy’s rocket launcher at work! Nice hit, he just knocked off another turret! Saturn’s not letting up though, firing back with those homing missiles- Alsmiffy nearly goes down! Looks like that dumpster saved him!”

“Good thing Trottimus is there to help him back up! Oh wow, this is the first time I’ve ever seen somebody use surveyors to heal and boost shields!”

“That’s mighty damn unusual, Hyperion surveyors only do one job, and that’s to fix shields and Loaders!”

“Man, I don’t know who I want to root for, Saturn or the Vault Hunters. It’s certainly an even match happening. For those of you who don’t know, these Vault Hunters destroyed our studio a while back. Letting them meet our buddy Saturn is our way of saying ‘thanks’ for the random renovation!”

“Is that surveyor on  _ fire _ ?”

“The Vault Hunters are literally fighting fire with fire!”

“And Saturn goes down! What a great explosion. That concludes our guest session with Vault Hunters Trottimus, Ross and Alsmiffy. If you liked that, we’ll definitely try to have some more guest Vault Hunters on the show. Maybe we’ll even get to personally interview a couple next time!”

“Oh, and Trottimus wants to add something! Certainly, you’re still live!”

“If you liked what you heard and saw, please, definitely hire Hat Corp., we certainly do all sorts of freelancing, just don’t sic any more giant Loaders on us, for the love of-”

“Time’s up! It’s been good having you on the show, Trottimus.”

“Hopefully him and his mates are alright. Thanks again for the chat! We’ve been FyreUK, Pandora’s number one radio station on the west coast, and thanks for tuning in.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll be back once we’ve changed our pants, with the Bloody Bandits latest top hit, ‘I Found Him Hot But He Wasn’t Interested But That’s Okay, I Have Nachos’.”

\--

As one, Trottimus, Ross and Alsmiffy stagger through the doors to the Hyperion Info Stockade. The door slides shut behind them with a whoosh, sealing the three inside. The hum of hidden machinery fills their ringing ears.

Still transformed, Ross begins to lick the various scratches on his torn, bleeding hands, encouraging the flesh to regenerate. Trottimus summons his medical surveyor, putting it to work on Ross.

Leaving his rocket launcher leaning on the wall, Alsmiffy adjusts his suit and weaponised gloves, straightening up. He pats down Trottimus’ back, leaving a ‘Zap Me’ sign taped there.

“I can’t  _ believe _ those FyreUK c-” Alsmiffy snarls, aiming a kick at the empty rocket launcher. 

“Charities,” Trottimus swiftly says, replacing the swear word with their nominated one of choice.

“Thank you. I should go back and fucking burn down their radio station!”

The kicked rocket launcher despawns upon reaching the limit of its spawning range. Alsmiffy still misses the delightful, pants wetting nuke spitter that’s the ‘Pyrophobia’, cursing Arsenal for the millionth time for taking it away from him. He stalks towards the doors they’d just entered through.

“Please don’t do that, that’ll be bad for the environment,” Trottimus points out. Leaning over, Ross grabs the back of Alsmiffy’s jacket with his mouth, tugging him back inside.

Outvoted, Alsmiffy resentfully spews all manner of hate as he follows the two upstairs. The spatter of curses fall harmlessly through the air to hit the ground, like droplets of rain. Destroyed Loader shells are piled against the walls, a depressingly familiar sight at this point.

Alsmiffy kicks one as he passes. It causes a voluminous cloud of dark brown dust to empty out. It covers his boots and the tiles like a rust infestation on a gate. Ross sneezes, his sneeze rattling through the deserted building.

The Vault Hunters make their way up to the top floor. The trio pause every now and again to rest up, still recovering from their lengthy, hellish sprint. 

Legging it along the highway hadn’t been easy while dodging the rest of Saturn’s barrage of determined missiles. How the highway hadn’t collapsed underneath the assault had astounded the trio.

In the corner of the room, the screen flickers into life when Trottimus touches the console keyboard. He begins to scour the Hyperion databases. Alsmiffy and Ross wander about, poking through the building for potential loot.

Trottimus stares at the screen, tapping keys to flick through all manner of information and dirty corporate secrets. It’s all at his disposal, with a click of the keyboard. Detecting an unknown intrusion, the facility decides to neutralize the threat.

In the background, Alsmiffy and Ross begin to fire on the Loaders spawning from the walls and on the balconies. 

Without looking, Trottimus lobs out two of his surveyors, instructing the machines to cover Alsmiffy and Ross. The fighting occupies next to no space at the back of his mind. It’s very real but also, not any of his concern, provided none of the Loaders make it past his two friends.

He pauses on a particularly juicy report detailing ‘experimental life extension technology including spinal implants and brain modifications in conjunction with ECHO eyes...’. 

One name in the sprawling list of authors for the report bothers him. He squints, leafing through his memory for why it’s so familiar. That’s a name he hasn’t seen in years. So now they’re working for Helios’ R and D team. To him, it’s not surprising, given their aspirations and personal goal for becoming a technological megalomaniac.

“Huh.” He downloads it for some late night reading, as well as every other report approved and signed by that same person. Hundreds pour into his reading list, ganked from the database. Someone’s been  _ busy _ .

Just for shits and giggles, he modifies Hat Corp’s. bounties to read exactly the same as someone else’s bounty (somebody codenamed ‘Teep’).

While waiting for that to be completed, Trottimus hits up what Hyperion has to say about eridium extraction and slag manufacturing. Eridium could be sold on the black market as a form of alternate currency. What it bought or how much it’s valued varied from vendor to vendor, as with what it’s used for. 

It’s a bit like Pandora’s own bootleg stock market, all in one tidy package without the pains of having to worry about stock; one threw it all in and hoped to emerge with some sort of profit, or not at all because of the unpredictable flow.

Trottimus has a feeling that people didn’t just mount the eridium in frames given its enticing purple glow.

Some people thought of it as a supplement, like the kind of vitamins that everybody took as part of the latest health trend. On Pandora, that trend’s short lived because said trends tended to kill rather than do any good. Others argued that eridium should be left in the ground where it belonged (Lalnable being one of them). More than a few (Hat Corp. included) are quick to point out its benefits, like buying nice things.

The five or so fifty page reports under ‘eridium’ that aren’t business or trade agreements make Trottimus rub his hands together. Smirking, he grabs them as well. It’s rare to find information that doesn’t involve breaking and entering, extortion, blackmail, breaking bones or beating someone up.

At a glance of the abstract, Hyperion hit on upon the secret to getting not one, but  _ two  _ Sirens addicted to eridium. That report’s linked to top secret information on the Vaults. At this rate, Trottimus is going to be swimming in intel for the next five months. That’s intel that can be sold to the highest bidder after Hat Corp. is done with it.

A blueprint for upgrading surveyors into is also thrown into the lot as well, just because he can, and nobody’s stopping him.

By the stairs, Alsmiffy shrieks. A grenade explodes, the floors collectively shuddering. Ross’ four feet scritch against the floor as he aggressively defends the topmost floor from the Loaders continuing their dogged push towards Trottimus.

He finds what he’s looking for in technical blueprints, a pitiful attempt labeling and coding it as ‘behavioural improvement collar’. Nothing can hide from him, so long as he knows the top secret codes for everything that’s being disguised.

Pulling the relevant page up, Trottimus’ eyes skim over the minute text. He doesn’t care about its psychological impacts, he just wants-  _ yes _ , there it is. The blueprints on how to craft the collar’s sitting pretty on the screen before him. Every bolt, nut, wire, link and connector is exposed, ripe for the taking.

He can feel it in his bones, an anticipatory shiver gracing him. The collar’s entirely doable, using whatever items he has on hand. What he can’t get, the stolen eridium will pay for it to be delivered to the base via courier.

Nanosounds will get what’s coming to her.

Smiling at a job well done, Trottimus exits the search, dusting his hands off. He can’t get too greedy, and he almost certainly owes Pyrionflax one for the generous tip off.

Ross peeks over his shoulder once Trottimus’ has gone downstairs to assist Alsmiffy. With a furtive glance thrown over one shoulder, he lopes over to the console.

Typing with claws is a delicate matter. Ross folds all but one claw down, the claw lightly clicking against the keyboard. Keeping one ear pricked for Alsmiffy and Trottimus returning, Ross runs the search for ‘MURDER DEATH RALLY’, silently urging it be done within the minute. There’s one result. It’s downloaded.

The other two had expressedly forbidden him to watch the playback on the ECHOset, but hadn't said anything about downloading it and watching it on his own ECHO device.

He can’t stick around to watch it here. It’ll have to be saved for later when he’s back at base. Trottimus and Alsmiffy aren’t the only ones who could be sneaky. Being sneaky’s practically a requirement to be part of their gang (which Sips would know all about).

Time to go. Ross scoops up Alsmiffy and Trottimus under each arm. His leap takes them to the bit of pipe jutting out from the stockage. As he lands, he drops his passengers off to return to his default form, opening fire on the Loaders peeking out of the balconies.

The trio’s footwear stomp over the top of the pipeline. The Loaders give up their pursuit. Further along the pipe, an emergency ladder allows the trio to climb back down to ground level. All the adrenaline’s wearing off, leaving them strung out and in need of some downtime.

The three crowd around the Fast Travel Station, after leaving behind a paper bag filled with skag shit (that Alsmiffy had kindly set on fire) on FyreUK’s doorstep.

\--

It takes a week or so for Trottimus to grasp the basics of constructing the blueprints, plus another five days to get a hold of all the required materials. The difficult component turns out to be the collar material. Everything else is ‘borrowed’ from existing machines, obtained from the black market, or pulled from junkyards.

Near Overlook and the surrounding Highlands, there exists an abandoned wildlife reservation. Rumours persisted about it once been a testing grounds for Hyperion’s slag experiments. It has the best chance of containing whatever Trottimus needs, so he pens a trip into his busy schedule.

Bypassing the official entrance is child’s play. Alsmiffy and Ross had commented on the lack of security planted there by the gate in. Trottimus isn’t one to complain, leading the way to the main laboratories.

Twenty minutes later, he’s scouring all the experimental rooms for any trace of the metal used to construct the outer shell of the collar. The outdated inventory sheets for Hyperion pinpointed this place as being one of the few locations with a shipment of the stuff which last received it.

“Paperwork, you’ve saved my ass,” Trottimus had remarked.

Alsmiffy and Ross have taken to roaming the open grounds outside, unable to deal with the grotesque smells and sights afflicting the inside of the reservation’s empty laboratories.

In comparison, Trottimus is in his natural habitat. He hasn’t stepped into a laboratory for so long that being back inside of one (even if it’s more biological than technical) secretly fills him with joy. Ross and Alsmiffy wouldn’t understand. Well, maybe they did. He should give them more credit, in spite of the two’s ability to start shit out of nothing but imaginary slights.

The two are close by if he runs into trouble. It’s unlikely that any animal’s willing to prowl these hallways after what’d happened. He’s not even game enough himself, comforted by Ross and Alsmiffy’s proximity.

Hat Corp.’s hitting up an awful lot of old Hyperion grounds these days. This place isn’t the first being hit up. Alsmiffy and Ross don’t mind being dragged about, so long as there’s entertainment to be had.

A dead surveyor with torn off wings rests in a broken crate. Trottimus pilfers it of parts to replace the nearly burnt out ones in his own surveyors, opportunistic fingers nimbly working the rusted screws loose with a digistructed tool.

The screws are too far gone to be of any practical use. He grasps the casing in one hand. Hoping that his nails won’t break, he pries it loose. It clangs on the floor when dropped. 

Sad-looking, lethargic globs of dust layer the finer wiring and pristine circuitry packed into one tidy package the size of a loaf of bread. Nearly all of it’s worked loose and transferred to his inventory.

By the time he looks up, a pair of yellow eyes gleam in the dark ahead of him. Screaming, Trottimus topples backwards over a desk. By throwing a hand out, he narrowly avoids landing head first. Scrambling the right way up, he pokes his head out from behind the upturned cover.

“Get back!” Like an idiot, he sends out a surveyor to circle him instead of grabbing a gun. “I’m armed!”

“Ah, so I wasn’t mistaken. There  _ are _ people here,” A soft, low voice admits, without any worry at the surveyor aiming in their direction. Yellow eyes blink with the slowness of a creature currently appraising him. “You are Vault Hunters?”

“Who’re you?” Trottimus forces confidence into his voice. Sound confident, and the rest will follow shortly. That belief hasn’t let him down in life yet.

“A wanderer. Nobody you need worry about. Much.” Eyes bob like the speaker is taking a step backwards. “I won’t disturb your looting, provided all of you keep the racket down.” 

Are they referring to Alsmiffy and Ross tramping about outside on guard? The two don’t know what’s happening, and if they are, they’re out of sight and out of mind.

Wanderers are as rare as Vault Hunters. While Vault Hunters used to wander, true wanderers are far and few in between. Trottimus flicks through his little black book, the one he keeps for people that he should keep an eye out for, whether or not they’re useful or prove interesting.

In the spot under Ravs’ name, his finger comes to rest on an entry about a wanderer capable of braving Pandora's landscape in the name of exploration and solitude.

“Wait, wait, you wouldn’t happen to be Lomadia, would you?” Trottimus directs his surveyor towards the speaker. 

With a click, the surveyor’s portable flashlight activates. It doesn’t work so well in the gloom since the flashlight is a cheap, plastic block of a solar powered thing that’d costed ten dollars. He mostly uses it to read in the dark for late nights (when it’s too hard to sleep, thanks to the nightmares).

The speaker is a short figure with a sniper rifle slung across her back, dressed in hiking gear. She’s real, Trottimus realises, as real as the Vaults. And here, he thought that about fifty or so people had been mass hallucinating about her existence.

“Am I that famous?” Lomadia’s breathy chuckle sounds amused. Trottimus nearly misses it from how quiet it is, even in a room with acoustics.

“Yeah! You know these parts better than the locals,” Trottimus flatters. “I could um, actually use your help.”

Perhaps she’s in a good mood, because she tilts her head rather than turning and leaving him in the literal dark. “What are you looking for?”

“The laboratories where they kept all the technical stuff. It’s not on the map,” Trottimus says, seizing the opportunity before it can slip out of his reach.

Lomadia makes a thoughtful ‘hm’ sound that carries on for several seconds. Her eyes drift upwards to the ceiling. Trottimus hopes that she knows. He doesn’t fancy trawling through the rest of this place on his own. 

Ross and Alsmiffy wouldn’t have a single clue as to what he’s looking for. If he told the two, they’d probably bring him every bit of metal they found. It’s nice, but it’d be a colossal waste of time on top of having to check his own findings.

“I do know,” Lomadia states. Her vintage sniper rifle earns a creak of leather in its sling as she shifts. “It’s not easy getting there, though.”

“What, why?” Trottimus’ heart sinks, almost as fast as it’d risen, full of hope that he doesn’t have to sink an entire day into this fool’s errand.

“The Slabs and Crimson Raiders tried to destroy this place.” A rock is nudged with her boot. It rolls across the floor by some rubble, where the ceiling’s caved in to reveal the fraying insulation. “The usual routes are blocked or caved in.”

“You said ‘usual’ routes. That means that there’s another way in,” Trottimus deduces. “If you help me out, I won’t come back here so soon.”

“Indeed. That would be best.” Lomadia gestures with her hand to follow. She waits, at least, for him to decide what to do.

“Hold on, let me call my friends over.” Trottimus sends a quick message that he’ll be heading deeper into the ruins with her. Alsmiffy and Ross jog in, catching up with him as Lomadia strides off into the opposing door.

Understandably, the two don’t want him to go off with her all by himself.

“She could murder you and eat your body!” Ross hisses. “It’s cannibal and face pizza season!” Trottimus hopes that Lomadia doesn’t have exceptional hearing. Well, if she does, she doesn’t seem to care much about what Ross is saying behind her back.

“Ew, who’d want to eat Trottimus, or his face?” Alsmiffy deadpans. “There’s other juicier bits, like his-”

“Nobody’s eating my dick,” Trottimus hisses. “I’m very attached to little Trottimus, thank you!”

“Wasn’t gonna say your dick, and we’re all pretty attached to it,” Alsmiffy deadpans, only to end up snickering as he meanly adds, “What I really meant to say was your ass.”

“Maybe if Trott was cooked first,” Ross happily says. Alsmiffy and Trottimus share a concerned look. Jokes about cannibalism aside, it’s hitting too close to home. Ross frowns. ”What? What’d I say wrong? I didn’t mean it, it’s just that hypothetically speaking…”Just in case, Trottimus passes him a ration bar. “Thanks, how’d you guess I was hungry?” Crumbs spew out onto the ground, along with obnoxiously loud gobbling noises.

Not wanting to be around if anything decides it wants a snack too, Trottimus catches up with Lomadia. “Hey, wait up!”

“Yes?” Lomadia slows to step over a dented explosive barrel leaking rainwater. Trottimus hops over it to avoid slamming right into it.

“How do you know this place so well?” 

The roads between Hyperion buildings led to an artificially constructed jungle, something which would never naturally exist on Pandora. Any and all water would be sucked out of any waterlogged fern that dared to poke its head outside the protective glass dome and shielding.

While the shielding’s faded, the dome houses and seals all the humidity in, plus whatever’s sharing the habitat with Lomadia and her three followers.

He draws a little closer to her, cautious of any noise that’s not Ross or Alsmiffy waging a futile war with the vegetation. Even with a gun in his hands, it feels like something is always watching, waiting for the inevitable moment his guard drops.

“I used to live here, for a time,” Lomadia answers, dodging a branch that springs back once she’s pushed it aside. He ducks under it. Alsmiffy isn’t so lucky.

“Fuck!” Fortunately, he doesn’t set it on fire in revenge, knowing that he has to play the part of a good boy so that Trottimus gets what he wants.

Ross laughs, pointing at Alsmiffy. Alsmiffy tears the branch off and begins to whack Ross with it, leaves and sticks flying everywhere. 

“Trott, help! I’m being assaulted by a furry tree!”

“Fetch  _ this _ !”

“Ignore them- wait, you used to  _ live _ here?” Trottimus gapes at her. He, Ross and Alsmiffy wouldn’t survive for a day in this place.

“If you leave alone and ignore all the creatures, it’s perfectly safe.” There’s nothing remotely reassuring about what she’d just said.

“There’s creatures. Here.” The jungle presses in on Trottimus, a lot more menacing and full of hidden threats than it’d been five seconds ago.

Several metres behind him, Alsmiffy and Ross lean closer to one another as though they’re sharing gossip. “Psst, Ross, what do you think he’s talking to the wanderer about?” Alsmiffy starts it off. There’s no need to try whispering. 

With Ross striving to stomp with every step, whoever’s listening had better be prepared to filter out that din. Yes, they hadn’t misheard Lomadia’s comment; Ross had heard somewhere that noise kept bad things away. What ‘bad things’, he hasn’t a clue. It must work, because nothing’s attacked him yet.

“Dunno,” Ross responds, scenting the air. His nose’s picking up all sorts of activity, far too many for him to identify. He lowers his head before a headache’s born from overstimulation. There’s only so much feedback that his brain can handle. “Why do you want to know?”

“Nothing, I just want to talk, because I’m  _ bored _ of walking.” 

There’s a few busy minutes of tense silence as the trio and their guide carefully navigate around a bend on a cliff. Below that, the ocean’s ready to catch anyone if there’s a misstep. 

Once that’s behind them, Ross picks up the conversation. “Alright, I got something.” He plunges on, “Do you think we’re whipped by Trott?”

This takes some serious consideration, on Alsmiffy’s part. Items that take up that much mental processing power revolves around him. He leaves enough room for it to include his two best friends, plus anything that  _ might _ concern them.

“Nah,” Alsmiffy decisively concludes, more to convince himself than to doubly indicate to Ross.

“But we do what he says,” Ross questions, his bushy eyebrows knitting together.

“Only when we want to,” is the swift response from Alsmiffy. “And when it’s fun.”

“What if it isn’t fun?”

“We do it anyway!”

Oh, for fuck’s sake, why doesn’t Ross  _ get _ it? Why’s he bringing this up now? Trottimus is the man with the plans, and it’s rare that Trottimus’ plans fall apart. 

If they do, it’s beyond what any of the three can control or account for.  _ Idiot _ , that’s why we plan  _ together _ , Alsmiffy wants to say out loud. Trottimus always asked for input.  _ Always _ .

On the other hand, the doubt that he isn’t in as much control is hard to shake off, even with his normal, iron-clad confidence that he wears like his suit.  _ Nothing _ , except perhaps this sort of questioning, could sneak in under it to bother him.

“But is it because we want to, or is it because we have to?” Ross is still stuck on that, apparently, and now he’s got Alsmiffy thinking too.

“...Fuck.”

“We really are whipped by Trott.” Ross ends up shrugging, not minding the concept. Generally, there’s little reason to complain about Trottimus’ plans.

Following his lead, Alsmiffy mutters something about ‘him not rubbing it in our faces, at least’. He perks up once he notices that not once, has Trottimus dropped back to check up on them. “Okay, but why’s he talking so much to her?”

“He’s trying to get her on our side.” Ross’ optimism isn’t let down by the fact that he’s just stepped in the dried out remains of a dung heap. He scrapes the bottom of his boot along the ground without pausing.

“Oh no, he’s got his charming face on. I  _ hate _ the charming face.” Alsmiffy despairs in silence. It can’t be that bad for Trottimus to ditch him or Ross that readily.

“You just hate it because he asked you to practice with him.”

“No, it’s because he looks like a complete fucking twat when he does the chinhands thing. There’s not even a table anywhere to do it on!”

“Beats me how he does it. I could have used that on Minty.”

“Whatever.” Alsmiffy doesn’t get  _ jealous _ . After having known Trottimus for years, it also really gets under his skin that Trottimus sometimes preferred to operate alone. What’s wrong with constantly having backup on hand?

In the middle of the jungle, Alsmiffy’s seized by a fear that he hasn’t felt, not since- Ross looks back at him, frowning in puzzlement. “Alsmiffy? Why’d you stop? Come on, we’ll lose them if we-”

“He wants to start a  _ new trio _ ,” Alsmiffy quietly says. “And she’s in on it!”

“Are you high on gas fumes again?” Ross squints at him.

“Shut up! It explains everything!” Despawning his gun, Alsmiffy tucks his hands under his armpits, resisting the urge to pace back and forth. “Look at how chummy he is with her! Our trio! I thought we had something  _ special _ with him!”

“He wouldn’t do that!” Ross grabs Alsmiffy by the hand, dragging him forwards. The two hop along the trail, catching sight of Trottimus and Lomadia’s figures between all the leaves.

Alsmiffy moans in despair. “I knew this was coming, it was just a matter of time before he opened his eyes!”

“Stop being a drama queen!” Ross gets behind him to push, because Alsmiffy is wilting, folding over backwards. “You heard him, he doesn’t hate you!”

“He does!”

“No, he doesn’t!”

“Where’s your proof, huh?  _ Where _ is it?”

“For fuck’s sake, you don’t need  _ proof _ that Trott hates you,” Ross growls, annoyed that Alsmiffy is going to get all worked up about something that’s been resolved ages ago.

It’s not like Alsmiffy to fall into a silence so absolute, almost as if hearing the answer will tear him to pieces. Even when Ross manages to get him walking again, he suppresses a sigh and bites his lip. His teeth nick, the sensation causing him to abandon the action before he can do any serious damage to himself.

“Why’re you so scared of us ditching you?” Ross tiredly asks. Alsmiffy needed reassurance is as rare as finding out that he didn’t hog all the leftovers.

The gangly, suited piece of shit who loves fire as much as he loves tormenting innocent bystanders hangs his head. “Because...you’re the only people I have left in this whole universe,” His voice catches with raw emotion, “who still care.”

Ross nearly knocks him over by barging into him and lifting him up in a bear hug. He could pick up Alsmiffy in one and Trottimus in the other. Both arms are occupied with massaging the former’s tense frame.

“You dirty, little, emotional  _ fecker _ ,” Ross sniffs. His own voice being bent out of shape by the intensity of his feelings.

“Put me down before you damage the goods,” Alsmiffy rasps, whacking him ineffectively on the arm. “Trott should be here for this,” He laments.

Well, Trottimus is standing a few metres away, staring at the two with such tender shock that Ross step over to pull him in.

“Nothing will ever make me stop caring for you two,” Trottimus confesses. He pauses. “Even if one of you keeps farting in the bed.”

“Not me,” Ross lies.

“Disgusting, the both of you, you’re making me  _ soft _ ,” Alsmiffy says with fake disgust. Still, he permits the feels session. Nobody did feels sessions like the trio.

“Whenever you’re ready to move on,” Lomadia quietly says behind the three, moving towards the trail. The trio shriek, springing apart. How is it that someone can move that silently in this place, they’ll never know.

As one, Trottimus, Alsmiffy and Ross trip, stumble, bump, fall and fumble their way after Lomadia. Twice, she’s forced to wait for the trio to catch up before continuing. Sweating and panting, the trio try not to lose sight of her.

Ross takes the lead, using her faint scent as a distinctive marker. She smells of reptilian scales, her own perspiration and very faintly, of the cleaning fluid that’s used to maintain weapons.

This is her domain, and the three are out of their element. They’ll be incredibly lucky if it’s not a trap of some kind. While there’s no malicious intent (as far as he can tell), she really doesn’t mean any harm, or is an excellent actor.

“How long is this going to take?” Alsmiffy pants. 

He’s stripped down to his shirt, ditching his jacket after a pocket had nearly been torn off by a free, unruly branch. While shields protected, it didn’t stop personal items from getting caught on other objects. The shield setting for ‘collision detection’ got iffy at times, especially in a crowded environment such as this. 

To preserve all their shield batteries, ‘environmental protection’ is also set to low. The humidity and heat teaming up proves to just as irritating as the buggered ‘collision detection’. It hadn’t been a problem in the desert, where a tumbleweed would have to be extraordinarily lucky to run into the only traveler around for hectares.

“I don’t know,” Ross gasps. “Shit, this place is rough on my feet.” He’d rather be running around in his other form if he’s going to do this much walking. In that other form of his, at least he’ll be quicker, at the expense of his furry hide overheating twice as fast. He prefers shorter operations.

“Speak for yourself, you’re the one who’s supposed to handle rough places better,” Trottimus grumbles. He’s shed his lab coat, trekking about with his sleeves rolled up. He ducks a branch, sliding over and underneath (like a thresher on the move) a buttress root almost arching towards the sun.

Above them, a busted glass dome gleams. A rakk’s shadow passes over the cracked glass, casting a giant shadow, like a fish drifting past a porthole. The trio pay no attention.

“We’re here,” Lomadia announces. Her voice is so soft that if she’d been more than a metre away, it would have blended in with the scenery.

Trottimus eyes the dark hallway besides her. It leads to another set of laboratories. If the graffitied map by the door is correct, that is. “Really?”

Invisible metal slides into his mouth from the air. It’s the kind of taste he gets from blood, only save that it’s heavier, weighing down his tongue. It’s all  _ wrong _ . No air should be that tainted.

Breathing it in feels like that he’s going to become one of those mad beasts dripping purple, driven mad from the pain in his veins and skin. He adjusts his breathing to minimize whatever’s in the air, using shallow breaths.

So, it’s true. Even if the slag experiments ceased months ago, the air still retains the experiments’ properties. It stains, like an actual substance on Trottimus’ skin, nothing that hot water and soap will ever really remove. The stain suprasses a physical nature, climbing into the inside of his brain to make itself comfortable.

“Urgh, that  _ smell _ .” Ross reels back, clapping a hand over his nose. His sense of smell’s punched by the terrible cues it’s picking up. It’s like the spicy number he’d eaten, except far worse. Whatever happened here isn’t  _ natural _ . Nature wouldn’t be that cruel.

“Mate, go stand outside before you barf.” Alsmiffy nods at the open door creaking sideways. They’d come in through a destroyed wall, climbing down from the top of the glass dome.

Green in the face, Ross staggers off to do just that, leaving Trottimus and Alsmiffy alone with Lomadia.

“It’s safe in there,” Lomadia says. Her stare (like she’s a creature that blinks when nobody’s looking) perturbs Alsmiffy and Trottimus.

“How safe?” Trottimus inquires, hoping that there isn’t a giant Loader hidden inside.

“It’s just dead specimens and old boxes.” Her stare grows a fraction more intense. Oh, she wants to know what he’s looking for.

“I’m looking for a certain metal.” Trottimus says, not wanting to reveal any more than that. “This place used to have loads of it.”

“I saw some in the back of the laboratory.” Lomadia turns and strides into the laboratory without needing a mask or any kind. He breathes out. That’d been the right thing to do then, telling her.

Alsmiffy whistles, causing Ross to pop up from behind a rock. “Ross! We’re going in.”

“Do we have to?” Ross sags. His face isn’t as green as it was before.

“Yes,” Trottimus firmly says, diving in after Lomadia.

The ancient lights no longer function, once the power (main and backup) had run out. His skin crawls from the disturbed air as Lomadia  _ strides _ ahead, fearless of what may lay ahead.

He hobbles after her, his fear serving as the voice of caution (because if a voice of reason exists, then the other one can). As somebody who’d been raised on the ice flats of Triton, day had been nearly eternal. The dark, an ugly unwanted occurrence, determined the chapters of his life. Living on other worlds where the dark regularly cropped up had taken years to get used to.

Trottimus always slept with a light on in the dark, a habit kept from childhood (snuggled up under his sheets, just one more page, he whispers, before he goes to bed).

Alsmiffy brushes past him, a hand held up. A comforting slip of a flame curls in his palm, licking the glove’s vent. Ross nearly steps on Trottimus’ heels, head turning this way and that, nostrils flaring as he picks up traces of lingering scents underneath the taint in the air.

It’s not a hike compared to earlier. The walk occupies a niche of time where it feels stretched out, drawing it out as opposed to passing in the blink of an eye.

When the laboratory hallways expand into a room, Trottimus nearly cries in relief. Light exists here, thanks to the plants poking in through the giant hole in the roof. 

Ever the diligent guide, Lomadia leads the trio over to the back corner. Trottimus searches the boxes as Alsmiffy and Ross poke about for things to break, pick up and examine or loot.

Lomadia remains by their side, lifting lids and peering into containers. Trottimus finds what he’s looking for, hidden underneath a box of new, sealed syringes (which she pockets). Ross smashes the lock, and Trottimus liberates his prize.

“Got it!” He announces, stashing it in his inventory after a quick scan confirms what it is.

“Good, now let’s get out of here,” Ross says, sounding like he’s got fingers pinching his nose shut. Alsmiffy smugly points to his mask, earning a playful swat.

“Thanks for your help,” Trottimus says to Lomadia.

“What are you planning on doing with all that metal?” Yellow eyes narrow.

“Just experimenting,” Trottimus tells her (in his airy fairy tone, according to Alsmiffy and Ross).

“On what?” Her tone becomes steelier.

Trottimus can’t help the way his eyes flick to Ross, warning Ross to standby. “Just recycling the metal,” He lies.

“If it’s going to be used on animals, I hope that you’ll reconsider, especially if it involves collars.”

Sensing a chance to brag, Trottimus scoffs. “Don’t worry, this metal’s too good for use on  _ animals _ , electric prods or sedatives are probably better for them-” Lomadia’s fist meets his cheek. Alsmiffy and Ross are already defensively covering him, guns pointed at her. 

She shakes out her hand as a wide-eyed Trottimus picks himself up off the ground. “Animal cruelty’s never been good for  _ anyone _ ,” She curtly says.

Ross’ nose picks up on a number of scents closing in around him. He hastily bumps Alsmiffy’s arm. “Don’t do anything stupid!”

“She hit Trott!” Alsmiffy growls. “I should blow her brains out!”

“Look around you, you idiot!” Ross hisses. The feeling of being watched drags Alsmiffy’s eyes to the hole in the roof above them.

Animals of all kinds are watching from ridges and cliffs. Stalkers, skags and rakks await the trio’s reaction, claws, tails and wings flicking. A few creatures make impatient noises. The largest creature of all is a giant rakk clinging to an old radio antennae, enormous jaws parted. It could swallow a surveyor whole. Saliva drips down from both jaws to pool onto the ground.

Lomadia regards the trio with mild disdain. “You’ll leave peacefully if you know what’s good for you.”

“We’ll go.” Trottimus stands, with Ross’ help. His face feels like someone’s taken a metal bat to it, a dull ache emanating from one cheek. His eyes are watering from the persistent stinging.

“And take your metal with you.” Lomadia kicks over the a circular bit of metal with her boot like it’s wood and not a precious resource. “If I find out that you used that collar on something that’s an animal, I  _ will  _ find you and demonstrate why you shouldn’t do that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Trottimus meekly says before sprinting for the Fast Travel Station with Alsmiffy and Ross hot on his heels. 

Five minutes of a head start isn’t enough time to outrun of horde of beasts that start to chase the trio back to Overlook. It is however, enough time for the trio to dive at the Fast Travel Station outside the gate. The last thing that Trottimus glimpses is the rakk’s jaws nearly clamping around his ankle.

The Fast Travel Network dumps him on top of Ross and Alsmiffy. A hasty check reveals that none of them had come to any harm. Still, it takes over half an hour before any of them can bear to stop jumping at every little sound in the base.

Midway through lunch, Alsmiffy begins to giggle. It dissolves into full on cackling, mutating into bursts of hysterical laughter that leave him leaning against a wall.

“What’s so funny? She gave me a bruise!” Trottimus’ indignation bounces off the cold walls and flooring. He’s holding an ice pack to his face. His fork, poised to stab a piece of pizza drops to the table.

“She  _ decked _ you like you were  _ nothing _ !” Alsmiffy jeers, picking out the onions to leave them on Ross’ plate.

Ross joins him. “Good job! You just had to go and open your fucking mouth!” He whoops, throwing both hands up into the air.

“Oooh, good one!” Alsmiffy high fives Ross. “And you were doing so well with her too!”

Scowling, Trottimus goes to put some more ice on the bruise to see if that’ll help with the swelling. Ross steals his pizza.

\--

The collar is, quite possibly, one of his best pieces of his work to date. Bit by bit, it’s taking shape. The metal from the wildlife preservation’s already been melted down into a circular template. 

It’s about as thick as three fingers, all shiny and polished once he’d began to work on it. The work keeps him busy, between other jobs to keep the trio’s ration subscriptions and living allowances topped up. 

It’s become important, especially with Ross’ late night wanders (which he thinks that Trottimus and Alsmiffy didn’t know about but oh, they did, always leaving the gate unlocked for him). Leftovers have stopped becoming an issue once Pandora accepted the three’s arrival.

Well, no news is good news. Really, Trottimus hopes that the collar will have no other use aside from restraining a Siren.

Once he’s got the basic template constructed, it’s build in and around collar, using it as study scaffolding for enough wiring, circuitry, technical shit and the shock cylinders (barely bigger than a glass vial) to fill the insides of a surveyor twice over.

One surveyor keeps his desk (stolen from a side room) lit up, while another ensures that all the parts are locked into place. The lockpicking program has a ‘freeze’ function that’s being put to practical use. Trottimus hunches over his masterpiece in progress, tweezers and a tiny torch fixing every component into place according to the holographic blueprint beside him. That’s projected out of a third surveyor.

Music piped into a previously bandit owned radio serves as a background distraction, as with the occasional clink of Alsmiffy’s gloves undergoing their usual clean and maintenance. Smooth jazz music flows through the power station. It’s a pointed reminder about Sips. The man’s eclectic taste in music had been contagious.

It’s amazing how much filthy gunk can collect between all the plates and cloth bits between jobs. 

During a phase between jobs, Alsmiffy had tried to scorch some toast and ended up firing a mysterious glob of flesh out of a vent. It’d smelled of decaying meat that’s a month old, much to everyone’s collective disgust. Alsmiffy swears that it’d tried to crawl off.

Trottimus had made it a priority to teach Alsmiffy how to clean his gear on his own without needing a little thing called ‘help’. Prior to that incident, Alsmiffy had pestered, begged and wheedled him if one glove so much as fired a second too slowly.

Ross had slunk off into the couch room (also known as the bedroom) to nap. Wriggling about, he pulls the blanket over. It smells of his, Trottimus and Alsmiffy’s bodies. If he had to describe it, it’s a familiar mix of drying fur, sweat, dust, rubbing alcohol, flammable gas and a host of other associations. It smells of home.

A glance at the door informs him that Alsmiffy and Trottimus aren’t going to barge in. Ross loves them dearly but people who hung out constantly needed some ‘me’ time away from each other. 

Taking a deep, preparatory breath, Ross tugs out his ECHO device, bringing up the file. Just in case, he mutes the sound. Subtitles are enabled. The screen blurs, sharpening as the file loads.

The video’s filmed from an aerial perspective, the platform that the camera’s rigged to shuddering from people stomping and cheering. It overlooks the familiar Murder Death Rally arena, all sand, dust and mounds of dirt looping in one hazardous track. FyreUK are welcoming the crowds. 

Impatient to reach the actual race, Ross skips the video forward by half a minute. Everything races at twice the speed until a countdown begins. He slows it as the view zooms in on a door in the side of the arena.

When the light on the track flashes green, about thirty vehicles pour from the underground ramp onto the track. Again, Ross skips forward until he spots three gas masks ducking down in a technical. Zooming in, Ross lets the video play as it should.

Yep, that’s Alsmiffy, himself and Trottimus, right in the thick of all the action. He remembers this part, the corkscrewing and the nearly being blasted into smithereens by the traitor bandit lieutenant. 

Everything after Alsmiffy had fallen is conspicuously missing from Ross’ recollection. No matter how hard he prods at the blank period, nothing is revealed to him. In the back of his mind, he can hear the rhythmic ‘chunk’ of the buzzsaw turret at work, smell the copious dust clouds sweeping over the arena and the acrid, eye-watering afterburn of booster fuel.

The video plays on. Ross’ eyes widen. His mouth falls open. Alsmiffy gets lost to the wall of dust hiding the track behind the Monster and the technical chasing after it. He watches himself climb forwards, tearing off his boots. The Ross in the video transforms with an anguished howl, sprouting fur, fangs and claws.

_ Under his feet, the technical had lurched as he’d sprung towards the Monster, Focker’s smell a rage inducing trigger for the beast inside-  _ Ross watches as he becomes a monster.

No, he  _ is _ the monster.

The video cuts outright as he’d transformed back on the side of the track, frazzled and none the wiser as to what he’d just bitten into. Ross drops his ECHO device onto the bed. He rises, throwing aside the blanket.

The walk to the bathroom takes him almost all the way back to the entrance of Southpaw Steam and Power. It’s a tedious walk that Alsmiffy bitched about often. Why a power station had the one bathroom is beyond the trio. It’s perfectly placed, as of this moment. 

Ross elbows through the door towards the toilet. Dropping to his knees, he thrusts his head over the bowl. The first of the vomiting dredges up his dinner, gouging out his stomach to flip it upside down and inside out. His entire upper body seized from the effort, arm and chest tensing to the point of nearly dislocating his bones.

His puke splatters into the bowl, sinking down the brown and green stained interior to splash into the glob of water there. Just when he thinks he’s done, his stomach convulses for round two.

Because life’s not fair, Ross throws up not twice, but six times. Each time, the bile sears the back of his throat and tongue, no doubt wearing away at his teeth’s enamel (but that’s okay, his teeth will grow back if any get knocked loose or torn out, complete with a shiny new coat).

He  _ remembers  _ the taste of flesh, assuming that he’d just bitten someone, not ripped their head off and dug in with clear relish. All the mounting adrenaline’s made him ignorant of his hunger. It’d taken over when he’d transformed, driving his singular thought of revenge.

Trottimus and Alsmiffy had tried to hide it, playing it off like it’s no big deal. It is, to Ross. He’d tried to  _ kill _ Trottimus. Killing Trottimus is as good as killing Alsmiffy; the trio all died together or not at all.

Whimpering, Ross dry heaves, hands clawing at the edge of the toilet bowl. He can’t stop the building pressure behind his eyes wanting to push his eyeballs with a ‘pop’ out of their sockets.

One more round of vomiting makes a thread of saliva and bile dribble out of the corner of his mouth. It lands on the back of his hand. Not wanting to see if it’s red too, Ross hastily wipes his hand on his pants, leaving a wet streak on the fabric.

His stomach twists, clenching around an emptiness. Ross imagines that it’s Focker’s bones in place of it. There’s bones rubbing in his abdomen, clacking as they bumped into one another, waiting to be digested. The information from his brain and stomach clash.

The toilet’s flushed of its damning evidence.

Moving to rest his head on the back of his arm, Ross squeezes his eyes shut. It doesn’t stop the tears from escaping, sliding over his cheeks. A miserable whimper echoes around the bathroom.

He can’t be friends with Trottimus and Alsmiffy, not if he behaves like this and doesn’t remember anything.

Nothing in Hollie’s notes say anything about  _ cannibalism _ . No wonder why his kind lived in groups. If least if one werewolf went hungry, others could stop it from tearing into vulnerable humans.

“Ross, mate, where are you? Why’d you leave your ECHO device out, you know that’s a  _ really  _ bad idea...” Alsmiffy’s jeering voice echoes down the corridor. 

Ross can’t bring himself to move, slumped by the toilet. He’s stopped wanting to hurl, at least. He lifts his head to wearily blink at the stranger standing there.

Alsmiffy pauses at the bathroom door, blinking. He’s not wearing his gas mask.

An old memory, as faded as Alsmiffy’s suit arises into Ross’ mind. It’d been the day Trottimus had set off the fire alarm with a bit of soldering in the wrong place.

Normally, Trottimus would have done it elsewhere. Instead, he’d picked the living room, given the blown lightbulb in his bedroom. As the smoke from the welding had massed, the smoke alarm had done its job and began trilling. The last tenant had rigged it to the sprinklers. 

Sensing a ‘fire’, the alarm had pinged the sprinklers.The whole apartment had undergone an watery cleansing.

Yowling at the indoor rain, Ross barged out into the hallway, past a stranger and right into a damp and spluttering Trottimus.

“What’s going on?” He’d screamed at Trottimus, grabbing an umbrella and holding it out to cover the two of them.

“I set off the alarm with my soldering!” Trottimus wailed.

“You fucker! Why I oughta!” Ross bit back whatever else he’d been about to say to try to save what they could.

Every single towel in the apartment’s gathered and thrown over items. Cardboard boxes were crammed full of if items, thrown into closets and under tables.

“Turn it off!” Ross shouted, holding Trottimus up to the fire alarm by the hips. It’d been like a scene right out of a sappy romantic comedy, the guy holding up the other guy at the head of a ship so that the latter could hold their arms out and pose.

Trottimus yanks out the alarm’s battery. The sprinklers ceased their merciless downpour. A few dripped. With a break of the wood underneath Ross, he lowered Trottimus. The two turn as the floorboards creak by them.

Almost on cue, the backup fire alarm trilled and began to blare.

Just when it’s all over, there’s a ginger haired stranger in the hallway, coughing and spluttering as well.

They’re muttering dark obscenities and curses under their breath, dressed in nothing more than half a suit with a towel slung around skinny shoulders. Trottimus and Ross stared.

“Alsmiffy?” Ross sniffed. Underneath all the water, he could make out the barest trace of the smells that defined his friend.

“What’re you staring at?” The stranger snarled. Their voice bulldozed the echoing sound of the fire alarm. It’s Alsmiffy’s voice. No stranger could have nailed down that snappish punch of a snarl. “Never seen a guy without his mask before?”

Without looking away, Ross lifted a hand. It felt along the wall, along the cabling and over the peeling paper. Finding the unit, it pried off the lid and ripped out the battery to the fire alarm, silencing it mid whoop.

“Nothing, nothing at all.” Ross nodded, tossing the battery into his inventory.

“You just look completely different to what I thought,” Trottimus added. All the drooping hair covering his eyes makes him look like a bedraggled long-haired dog. He didn’t add that Alsmiffy’s prettier than he’d ever imagined.

“Less ugly,” Ross said, grinning, saying what Trottimus couldn’t say.

“Less scarred, and less rugged,” Trottimus said, joining in on the grin. “Possibly handsome, without that lip curling scowl.”

“Screw you guys, I don’t need  _ this  _ sass in my life,” Alsmiffy retorted, slamming the door to his bedroom. He emerged from. His room to belatedly add, “Platonically, the screwing, that is!” The door slammed, causing a ugly vase to hop off its table and tinkle into pieces on the floor.

In the present, Ross’ mind hands him an imaginary image of Alsmiffy staring blankly up at the sky as a creature dug in between his ribs to get to the delicious, soft organs underneath.

He wipes his mind, shaking his head. “What do you want?” He weakly asks, hunching down into himself.

“You left your device out again, just thought I’d bring it back to you before you forgot,” Alsmiffy quickly says. He lopes into the bathroom. “Urgh, what  _ stinks _ ? Did you eat something bad again?” Alsmiffy nearly slams the toilet lid shut on Ross’ head, had Ross not pulled it away in time.

“No,” Ross mumbles far too quietly for him to hear.

The toilet’s flushed again to purge it of its toxic stink. Alsmiffy leans against the mildewing wall, dropping the ECHO device into Ross’ open hand. 

“You know, we could see that doc if your tummy’s upset.” Ross doesn’t say anything, staring at the device in his hands. “Hey you big lug, say something.” Frowning, Alsmiffy pushes off the wall. Ross generally pushed back when shoved. “Look, it was a joke, I know you’re pretty sensible about what you eat when you’re like that.”

“Why’d you hide this from me?” Ross lifts his head, holding up his device to show the screen replaying the moment he’d began to eat.

An expression flickers across Alsmiffy’s naked face. Surprise or guilt, or both. “We weren’t hiding, we were just waiting for the right time and place to tell you,” Alsmiffy says far too quickly for Ross’ liking.

“I’m a  _ monster _ .” Ross drops his device into his inventory, curling to despairingly rock backwards and forwards on the spot.

“You’re not a monster!” Alsmiffy is already on his knees too, patting Ross on the shoulder- Ross lean away from him like he doesn’t want to be touched. Alsmiffy whips out his ECHO device to dial Trottimus. “Trott! Get your ass into the bathroom!!” Before Trottimus can ask what it’s all about, Alsmiffy leaves the call.

Trottimus shows up about five minutes later, a surveyor following him. He’s got a sparking power tool in one hand. The welding mask nearly slaps into his face when he skids into the bathroom. He deactivates it, tucking it into a pocket. The mask is pried off to join it.

“Ross, why’re you on the floor?” Trottimus is full of awful concern that pains Ross to hear.

“Monsters don’t eat people,” is Ross’ muffled comment.

“You found out what happened at the Murder Death Rally,” Trottimus guesses, inwardly wincing. He’d hoped that this day would never arrive. Since it had (sooner than Trottimus had expected), it’s time to face the music. “How?”

“Looked it up at the stockade while you were busy with the Loaders,” Ross admits, his voice softening like he’s expecting a punishment of some sort. It worms between Trottimus and Alsmiffy’s ribs to nest behind there.

“ _ Ross _ , we were trying to protect you,” Alsmiffy cajoles, full of fake cheer and attempted comfort. It’s nice that he’s trying, and Ross hates how it’s not exactly working. “A bit of random cannibalism’s never hurt anyone…”

“It hurt  _ me _ ! And it wasn’t random! I wanted to  _ eat _ him! And I liked t! No wonder why I felt off for a few days after that!” Ross snaps at him. 

For a second, his eyes flashing a yellow that burned with a viciousness that hinted at Ross’ inner nature. Alsmiffy stares him down. He knows that nature like he knows his own destructive one. It explained why they got on so well, two kindred spirits that went together.

Unable to hold the gaze, Ross backs down, burying his head in his arms again with a low, low moan of pain.

“Why’re you so all hung up about this?” Alsmiffy flops onto the floor, sitting cross-legged besides him. “What?” He and Trottimus lean in when Ross says something far too softly.

“It could have been the both of you instead of Focker.” Ross begins to noisily bawl. He can’t hide from his friends, even when he’s crying.

“Oi, oi, oi, we wouldn’t have let you eat us,” Trottimus tries to reassure. “Did you miss the part where we saved you from yourself?”

“No.” Ross’ sniffling pauses for a split second. “I watched the whole thing, and I came way too close to-” He can’t bring himself to say it, clamming up.

“Good, then you know that no matter what happens, you’ll always be our Ross,” Trottimus says, nodding.

“No, I’m a monster,” Ross insists, shaking his head stubbornly. “I can’t be your Ross, or anyone’s.”

“You may be a monster,” Alsmiffy begins in a self righteous tone, causing Trottimus to kick him in the ankle, “but you’re more human than other humans are, including me!”

“I’m not human!” is Ross’ annoyed response.

“You are!” Alsmiffy throws down a stack of crumpled research papers onto the bathroom floor tiles. “I’ve been reading! You’re not that different to human! You got the same biology, just a different brain with an extra doodad stuck in it because of some fucking aliens!”

“But what about my fucked up metabolism?” Ross indicates his stomach. “I eat double that of a human!”

“It’s not a big fucking deal,” Trottimus points out. “Other people have weird metabolisms too. You’re just a little different.”

“Trott, I turn into a giant furry killing machine when I get too hungry,” Ross hotly counters, tears still running down his cheeks. “How’s that a ‘little’ different?”

“Well, you could turn into giant furry killing,  _ and _ horny machine,” Trottimus deadpans. Alsmiffy lets out a muffled shriek of laughter that he smoothly turns into an awkward cough.

Ross nearly chokes on his own spit when he starts laughing. “Trott, that’s  _ disgusting,  _ who would even want want to-”

“Furries,” Trott comments, staring at the ceiling. He sounds like he’s grinning. “The ECHOnet is a magical place.”

Ross wipes his face with the back of his hand, frowning. “That would explain why that guy on Eden-4 was so insistent I call him.”

“Ross, he wanted you to fuck him, how did you not pick up on that,” Alsmiffy gleefully points out. “He even asked you what you were packing!”

“I thought he was talking about guns! And I told him I was packing lots of heat!” Ross’ mortified expression causes Alsmiffy to start cracking up, and Trottimus to snicker.

“You know what this means?”

“What?” Ross blows his nose on a bit of toilet paper, sounding like a trumpet is being played in a broom closet. “I’m not a monster?”

“No, you’re a fucking  _ furry _ ,” Alsmiffy drawls.

“I am not a furry!” Ross throws his wad of toilet paper at Alsmiffy.

“But seriously, if you still think you're a monster, you’re  _ our _ monster,” Trottimus says. “Nothing will ever change that.”

“...Thank you,” Ross says, looking like he’s about to start crying again.

“Here, have a tissue.” Ross takes the offered cloth from Alsmiffy and blows his nose on it. Alsmiffy frowns. “Hang on, I might have gotten jizz all over that.” Ross peeks at the tissue, before grabbing Alsmiffy by the scruff of the neck and bodily dragging him over to the toilet.

“Eat shit!” Ross snarls, an exaggerated growl that sounds a touch too real for his two friends. “I rubbed my face all over your jizz riddled tissue, so eat my literal skag shit!”

“I’m joking!” Alsmiffy screeches as the toilet looms. “Trott, help!”

Grinning, Trottimus helps by lifting up the lid as Ross prepares to dunk Alsmiffy’s exposed face.

\--

Bent over the table, Trottimus lowers the last metal cover into place with tweezers. Sweating, he instructs the surveyor to maintain its position. The polished silver collar gleams. The metal cover clicks as the catches slide into place. Trottimus nearly slides off his chair with relief, wanting to get up and click his heels together.

He’s done it. The collar’s complete. Trottimus ECHOs Alsmiffy and Ross (the two throwing out the trash as usual, probably drag racing all the way back up the hill after). 

Maybe they’ll be back before the storm starts. Already, the dam’s funneling all the extra water through the power station. Pipes and waterways gurgle all around Trottimus. He’ll have enough power to last for days. It’s a shame they can’t siphon all the extra energy to power cores just to pad out their schemes.

“The collar’s done!”

> great

> AWESOME

> that was the most enthusiastic ‘great’ ever

> ‘SOMEBODY’ DIDNT THROW THE LAST TRASH BAG OUT BEFORE WE LEFT AND NOW THE WHOLE WEST WING SMELLS LIKE ONE OF ROSS’ FARTS

> MY FARTS SMELL BETTER THAN YOU 

> OOOOOOHHHHH

Alsmiffy and Ross burst into the room. Trottimus holds up the collar above his head like he’s about to crown a monarch. The other two gather around, providing their own music through Ross beatboxing and Alsmiffy providing a choral piece. 

It’s all very touching. Trottimus proudly sniffs. “Someone needs to try it out to see if it fits.”

Without missing a beat, Alsmiffy grabs Ross’ hand, holding it up into the air. Ross elbows him. “Fuck off! I’m not volunteering!”

“Too late, you just did,” Trottimus says, beckoning him over. “Come here, it won’t hurt unless it’s turned on.”

Ross gingerly sidles towards Trottimus, throwing a glare at Alsmiffy. That glare promises less mashed potatoes at dinner later. Perfectly aware of the consequences, Alsmiffy enthusiastically flashes him a thumbs up. Trottimus lowers the collar around Ross’ neck, over his shaggy head.

“Where’s the on button?” Ross grounds out. The collar’s light, barely a pressure around his neck. To him, it feels heavier than that.

“Here.” Trottimus points, without touching it.

Without thinking, Ross pokes it with a pudgy finger. “This thing?” It begins to hum, locking into place. “ _Shit_!”

“You  _ twat _ !” Trottimus screams at him.

“It was an accident!” Ross wails. “I’m sorry!”

“Take it off!” Alsmiffy shouts. “You can’t wear it, she’s got to wear it!”

“I can’t, it’s stuck!” Ross tries to get a hand in underneath it, only for the collar to administer a mild shock to his fingertips. “Ow!” He blows on his fingers, flapping his hand before trying again.

“Don’t destroy it!” Trottimus slaps Ross’ hands away from the collar. “It took me nearly a month to make and I don’t have any more of that metal left!”

“What’d you say this collar does again?” Alsmiffy examines the metal, poking it cautiously. It hums contently.

“It stops a Sirens from using her powers unless we want her to,” Trottimus explains, wondering why he’s still sticking with these two because nobody could possibly fuck up like this and still be alive. He claps his hands together, trying to corral his temper into behaving. No, he can’t be too angry. The two meant well. Usually. “It’s reverse engineered tech that Hyperion developed.”

“Fancy,” Alsmiffy admires. “But okay, would do we get it off?”

“We don’t.” Trottimus grits his teeth, trying to think of a solution that doesn’t involve turning his masterpiece into a million pieces of scrap.

“Would it work on a werewolf?” Ross inquires after a slight pause.

“I don’t think so. You don’t have the same biology as a Siren.” Trottimus frowns. “And I’m not collaring you, Ross.”

“Why not?”

“If you’re still hung up on being a monster and all that, the Sirens are the bigger monsters.”

“Gee, thanks, I needed to hear that,” Ross sarcastically says. “I’m actually a monster and there’s bigger monsters out there.”

“Yep,” Trottimus cheerfully says. “You’ll be perfect for getting the collar on her.”

The power station shakes. Alsmiffy nearly trips over Ross, who grabs him and Trottimus to steady the two. Dust and bits of ceiling shaken loose crumble down.

“What was that?” Alsmiffy blurts. “It sounded  _ big. _ ” For once, he sounds worried rather than cocksure.

“I don’t know!” Ross lets go of his two friends, forgetting about the collar to pull out a gun. “Better not be those bandits who want their power station back.”

“Don’t be stupid, I’ll just check the cameras.” Trottimus strolls over to the console, bringing up the feeds. 

A clap of thunder graces the whole valley, muffled to the trio. At least it’d concealed the sound of the explosion, stopping stickybeaks from wanting to converge and pick through the power station for any loot.

Outside of the power station, a white haired figure is stepping over the rock and rubble that used to be the front gate. They reload a Vladof rocket launcher. It’s dumped onto the ground to lean against their hip. Almost thoughtfully, they glance at the camera, pulling out a pistol. The destroyed camera goes dark.

Ross, Alsmiffy and Trottimus share a grim glance. “That’s no Vault Hunter,” Trottimus says, his face paling. “That’s a bounty hunter!”

“ _ Bounty hunter _ ?” Alsmiffy spawns his gloves, checking that his supply of gas is all topped up. “Of course it’s a  _ bounty hunter _ , Vault Hunters don’t go blowing up each other’s front doors!”

“They’re not alone,” Ross points out, jabbing a finger at another camera. The feed on that one’s gone dark several seconds after the other. “There’s one’s on the roof!”

“Trying to flank us, are they?” Trottimus deploys a surveyor, wondering if it’s worth sneaking in an upgrade. Against the trio, two bounty hunters shouldn’t be too much of a challenge to kill.

“They look familiar,” Ross recalls. If he could smell them, he’d know who they are instantly.

“It’s a fucking small world if you do remember who they are,” Alsmiffy retorts. “Ross, you ready?” He tilts his head, acknowledging Ross’ shiny new necklace. “Can you even transform with that collar on?”

Ross grunts, managing to shift. “Ya,” He rumbles, changing back. “I can transform a bit, but I think I’ll stay like this for now.” He reloads his gun.

“Let’s go,” Trottimus says, throwing the last of their important possessions into his inventory. Everything else that’s not on him won’t be missed.

His surveyor’s already charging each of their shields, its blue beam changing targets as it follows the trio. Trottimus reloads his SMG, cursing that a bounty hunter came knocking at a time like this. None of them believed in karma. 

With a life as chaotic as this, karma can give up on trying to make it all even.

The bounty hunter’s already broken through the proper front door, toting a Hyperion shotgun on one shoulder as they stroll in. Alsmiffy, Ross and Trottimus fan out across the room to flank them. Machinery hums and clanks all around the four, driven by the rush of water from higher up in the Three Horns region.

“Oi!” Alsmiffy shouts, swaggering forwards. “What’d you think you’re doing? Don’t you know it’s  _ rude _ to enter without knocking?” The bounty hunter steadily eyes him up without a single bit of fear. The eye not underneath the black eyepatch blinks. This annoys the trio.

“Say something!” Ross taunts. “Unless you’re about to shit yourself.”

“Okay, no shitting.” The bounty hunter begins in a level tone, “Knock knock.”

“...Who’s there?” Trottimus calls out, unable to resist a knock knock joke.

“It’s HybridPanda, here to take you out!” Grinning, Panda lowers their shotgun and fires it. The shotgun doesn’t have the trajectory that the trio don’t expect. 

A grid of bullets spread out in a crosshatch across the room, expanding to catch all three of them.

Alsmiffy flings a fireball in their direction before taking cover behind a column. Chunks of concrete explode outwards from the bullets shred part of it off. He sticks his head out to spot Ross and Trottimus opening fire on Panda. Panda’s moving from cover to cover, firing back whenever they can.

This is no amateur they’re up against, Panda weaving and ducking between every round of gunfire to reload and fire back.

As the strange line of bullets spread out, Ross and Trottimus are forced to duck or be clipped by the bullets. Shields rise and fall, hints of blue flickering in the shadows of the power station. 

Heart already pounding, Alsmiffy squints at the shotgun in Panda’s hands. It’s a legendary, always a worthy trophy to be ripped out of Panda’s cold dead hands. He mentally calls dibs.

Alsmiffy moves to intercept Panda as Ross and Trottimus force them to the other end of the room where the hallways begin. Ross yelps as a bullet catches him on the head, his shield absorbing the hit.

Not wanting Ross to take a lethal hit, Alsmiffy surges forth. Only at the last second does he spot a metal ring set on the floor: a bouncing betty grenade. Alsmiffy shrieks as it encases him in a sticky layer of slag runoff. The slag drips off him, extinguishing the fire building up on his gloves with a loud hiss.

Emerging from cover, Panda aims at him and pulls the trigger. 

Not wanting to die, Alsmiffy rolls out of the way. The slipperiness of the slag makes him careen into a crate, leaving an obvious trail behind. Grunting, he stumbles upright, lobbing fireballs at Panda. 

Like him, Panda ducks, rolls and fires back with a laser this time. The laser’s shots pings off the concrete, breaking off more scenery and raining bits down. A wall fan falls with a bang, splashing into water somewhere in one of the filling wells.

“Who put that grenade there?” Alsmiffy shouts at Trottimus. Trottimus sends a surveyor after Panda once it’s healed up Ross.

“Wasn’t us!” Ross shouts back.

Panda aims the laser at Alsmiffy, ignoring the surveyor homing in on them. Right when the surveyor’s about to let loose its electrical bolt, the lights flicker, going out. Someone fires a gun. Thunder crackles the generators, which sputter for a few seconds. The one charging the power core takes longer to come back.

“Hey, who turned out the lights?” Trottimus indignantly shouts. “Helga, no!” He shrieks as he watches (hears, rather) his surveyor crash into a wall.

“I don’t know!” Alsmiffy shouts back, crouching behind the crate. He doesn’t dare use his flashlight or spurt a flame, listening for any hint of Panda approaching.

> ROSS WHERE R YOU

> BY THE DOORWAY W TROTT

> TROTT PLS SEND SURVEYOR CLOSER SO I CAN SEE AND SET THE FUCKER ON FIRE

> HOLD ON SURVEYOR DOWN

> THEN WHATS THE BLUE LIGHT BOBBING TOWARDS ME?

The blue light isn’t a surveyor. It’s  _ Panda _ , their cybernetic eye lit up in the dark like a fiery blue spirit of vengeance and murderous intent rolled into one. In the light, Panda’s white hair nearly glows.

Panda reaches out to grab Alsmiffy. Alsmiffy screams, shoving them back with a burst of pure gas. He snaps his fingers, lighting Panda up in a column of fire.

Unfazed, Panda shrugs it off, their shield phasing white and blue as it extinguishes the fire-  _ shit _ , they’re wearing an adaptive shield. They advance on Alsmiffy, hands held out like they want a hug, still grinning manically even as the fire licks at their face and arms.

For the first time, Alsmiffy isn’t sure if he can win this fight. In his haste to put some space between him and Panda, he trips over  _ something _ . He doesn’t remember putting tripwires down (too fiddly, and he hates getting tangled up in the mess when he forgets where he left them).

Out of nowhere, Ross slams into Panda. The air fills with the smell of burning fur. Panda grunts, pulling out their shotgun and firing a round into Ross’ chest. Ross howls in pain, retreating to Alsmiffy’s side on all fours. Growling like a technical’s engine, Ross eyes Panda.

Panting, Trottimus limps into view, a surveyor illuminating the area in front of him. “There’s just one of you and three of us,” He states. “Give up and we’ll go easy on you.” Ross and Alsmiffy smile at the lie. They don’t let anybody who fights them leave alive, or in any condition to tattle.

That earns an amused  _ and _ devious chuckle from Panda. “What makes you think I came here alone?” They smirk. “Since you’re all here, that means nobody’s keeping an eye on your power core.”

It takes Trottimus less of a second to catch on, connecting the straggling generator and the flickering lights. “Our power core!” Trottimus shouts, firing at Panda. Panda dives behind a column despite the direct hit. “That’s ours!”

“I didn’t take it!” Panda calls out.

“I did!” A confident voice rings out. Above them on a balcony, a figure with a rainbow bandana strikes a dramatic pose. A flashlight module bobs on their belt. “Panda, let’s go, we don’t need to worry about them.”

“But Saberial, I want their tasty bounties!” Panda protests. “Didn’t you see how much they’re worth?” They slyly add, “And it’ll buy your girlfriend some really nice pressies.”

“Fine, but if you lose your eye again, don’t say I didn’t warn you!” Saberial hotly fires back.

“Are you ignoring us to banter?” Alsmiffy cuts in, indignant.

“Well, yeah, you’re a bunch of pushovers,” Panda says. Their matter-of-fact bluntness cuts like a piece of glass falling into an already open wound. “I thought you’d be more of a challenge, what with your bounties and all.”

Are Alsmiffy, Trottimus and Ross that  _ weak _ ?

“We’re not  _ pushovers _ ,” Alsmiffy snarls, raising both hands like he’s calling down a bolt of lightning. Orange vortexes from open palms.

Trottimus’ surveyor flashes blue, letting off a rapid series of electric bolts. It mixes with the fire, orange and blue snaking in and out of each other to bear down on Panda.

Panda rolls their eyes and switches guns, tossing a Tediore pistol at the combined attack. The attack explodes almost a metre away from meeting Panda.

“... _ Fuck _ .” Ross’ claws scratch against the floor before he springs at Panda.

A combat boot slams into his side. Yelping, Ross scrambles back on his feet to face his attacker. Hackles raising, he nearly spits at the new challenger.

Saberial gestures ‘come on’ with her hands. “Never fought a werewolf barehanded before,” She admits. “I’m sure I’ll manage, though.”

Ross responds with a short growl, straightening up onto two legs, flicking out his sharpened claws. Saberial raises her eyebrows.

The two meet in the centre of the room, Ross slashing away and Saberial punching. He hates admitting that he’s enjoying a brawl as simple as this.

In his peripheral vision, Alsmiffy and Trottimus are gunning down the floor right behind Panda’s heels. Panda’s firing back with the laser again, facing the front to knock out a surveyor. This enrages Trottimus, who just spawns another and sends it zooming after them.

They’ve never fought for this long, or against two opponents who could read each other’s minds to react whenever one of the trio try to cover one of their own. 

Trottimus relies on Alsmiffy and Ross to distract. With just Alsmiffy, it’s difficult to distract Panda to deliver the much needed bolt to take out Panda’s shield so Alsmiffy can bypass the protection and properly set them on fire.

Ross relies on Alsmiffy and Trottimus to bring down the shield for him to go in. With Saberial butting in, Ross is distracted. Similarly, Alsmiffy needs Trottimus and Ross for their combat dynamic to work.

It’s all falling apart.

Normally, the fight would be over by now, and the trio would be looting and celebrating. Worn out, Ross takes a kick to the face, stepping onto a bouncing betty grenade that showers him in slag. It splashes over his eyes, smearing across his shield to blind him.

Howling, Ross rubs at his eyes and forgets his opponent. Saberial slugs him several times from the left and right, grabbing him by the arm to slam him into a crate. The crate buckles, shattering under his weight. 

Winded, Ross shifts back. Saberial draws a gun to shoot him in the head. Alsmiffy charges at her, abandoning Trottimus. “Leave him alone!”

“Alsmiffy, no!” Trottimus yells, yelping as Panda shoulder charges him. It sends him flying into a wall. He scrambles off it, avoiding the shotgun blast that rips off a chunk the size of his head.

He flails towards Alsmiffy, watching Alsmiffy get punched by Saberial. Ross lunges at Saberial. Saberial smacks him down with the butt of the rifle, kicking him in the nose. Panda’s advancing boots are loud in Trottimus’ ears.

Cornered against the railing, Alsmiffy, Trottimus and Ross huddle up, pressing up against one another. It’s nice knowing that they’re going to die together.

“Trott, mate, I think we’re finished,” Alsmiffy whispers. “I’m nearly out of gas, and my shield’s dying on me.”

Ross shifts back, panting like someone close to passing out. Slag drips off his form. “I’m hungry,” He murmurs, pawing at his bleeding nose. “I can’t do this anymore.” The way he sounds so beaten makes the rest of Trottimus and Alsmiffy’s lungs empty.

“It’s not over yet,” Trottimus reassures, his hands finding theirs to hold on. His back bumps into the balcony’s creaking railing. He leans on it, the sound of the crumpling metal hidden by the sound of rushing water and power station at work.

“Give up, and I won’t have to cryo you,” Panda states. “Trust me, the cryo can do nasty things if it’s left too long.” They aim and destroy Trottimus’ last surveyor that’s circling the ceiling. Its remains scatter all over the room.

“It’s not a bad life, behind bars,” Saberial adds. It’s nice to see that Ross has done his fair share of damage to her. She’s bleeding in places where her shield had broken from Ross’ blows and claws. He’d bitten her for good measure too. “You’ll be together if you behave.”

“I’d rather die than get taken alive.” Alsmiffy snorts.

“Hear, hear,” Ross hollowly seconds. In their joined hands, the two can feel Trottimus stepping back and squeezing their palms. The metal’s gone behind his back.

“You’ll never take us alive!” Trottimus shouts, throwing himself backwards as the railing snaps. Thanks to their linked hands, he yanks Alsmiffy and Ross with him off the balcony.

Panda and Saberial start, a second too late. Trottimus flips them the finger, smirking as he braces himself for the inevitable impact of water. Screaming, Alsmiffy and Ross flail.

This had better be the grateless tunnel that all their trash’s been going into, or they’re fucked if Saberial and Panda glance down. Trottimus hopes that he’d followed the power station’s plans right.

“...least the three were where Sjin said they’d be, but he’d better pay well for the core anyway...” Panda’s distorted voice comments as the trio plunge down into the icy, white foam.

Alsmiffy, Ross and Trottimus are yanked under without the chance to surface. The churning current drags the trio down without giving them time to take deep breaths. Trottimus’ cheeks bulge. 

He probably has thirty seconds before drowning. He drags out the Oz kits (all nicked from Elpis, forgotten to be returned to Bluari upon leaving). Knuckles ache from the effort of holding onto the kits. The destroyed surveyor’s eye is still lit up, bobbing along behind them; the blue eye provides a crappy bit of light, enough for the three to see one another.

Next to him, Alsmiffy’s scrabbling hands latch onto a kit, dragging it to his gas mask. A bubble forms over his head before a bit of wood slams his arm back. He emits bubbles from the silent scream of pain.

On Trottimus’ other side, Ross is kicking and thrashing, eyes wide open. He nearly throws Trottimus’ hand off him. Gritting his teeth, Trottimus attaches the Oz kit to Ross’ shoulder. Ross gasps for air when the bubble also spawns over his face. Grey and black rush past, along with leaf litter and trash.

Starting to blacking out, Trottimus reaches for his own Oz kit. A loose stone knocks it out of his hand.

No, no, no,  _ no! _

A panicked stream of bubbles escape his mouth. The powerful current separates the Oz kit and him. It’s thrown down another chute. His lungs  _ burn _ , the current massaging his remaining air out of his chest, slamming him against the walls. He hadn’t imagined  _ drowning  _ to be the end of him.

Someone drags him closer to their body. As Trottimus’ vision wavers, he thinks he must be dreaming because Alsmiffy and Ross have put their heads together at last to think of a solution.

\--

His chest isn’t the only thing that hurts. Everything does, head, arms, legs, even his big toes ache. His chest bounces like a rubber ball, up and down, up and down like it’s being compressed. A different set of rough skinned hands tugs his mouth open.

The thing descending on it tastes like water, a mix of dirt and a hint of a tang from water treatment tablets. Consciousness returns with the annoying sluggishness that comes with nearly dying. It’s almost a relief. He’s not dead. Death probably isn’t this wet.

What helps speed up the process is the excitement of known facts.

His name is Trottimus, he once aspired to be a wannabe Hyperion technician until he found his calling as a con artist and a Vault Hunter. Physically and biologically, he’s almost thirty years old, currently single and not ready to mingle, and someone is giving him the fucking kiss of life. 

For fuck’s sake, he’s already  _ awake _ , leave him  _ alone _ .

Whoever it is, they’re terrible at it, awkward and fumbling, biting like they’re trying to eat his face and not make his lungs reboot- this is not what he should be waking up to.

Trottimus splutters, hands coming up to wildly whack whoever’s trying to revive him. He has no strength left to sit up, sprawled out on the ground in an undignified heap of lab coat and wet clothes. 

It has the special effect of whoever’s making administering mouth to mouth give up their attempt to save him. There’s a grumble, followed by disgruntled footsteps crunching on sand away from him.

Gasping, he begins to cough. His memory feeds him what’d just happened before he’d checked out. Pneumonia is going to be his second cause of death on Pandora, next to these two assholes who’re his friends.

“Trott! You’re alive!” A tearful Ross almost smothers him in a hug. Wet fur overpowers Trottimus’ senses, familiar and he’s never been so glad to smell or see it. “You bastard, you wanted us to jump into the drain with no grate to escape!”

At that, Trottimus can only weakly grin. When he turns his head, he spots a gangly, sopping wet and suited figure. They’re stomping around on the grassy bank, gathering sticks and loose leaves. Vegetation’s shaken loose to whirlwind towards a growing pile.

“Alsmiffy’s making a fire,” Ross whispers. “Manually. All his stuff’s wet and he’s pretty pissed about it.”

“Does he even know how to do that?” Trottimus mutters. Had it been Alsmiffy who’d tried to revive him? It must have been. Ross would be more gentle about it.

When he tries to get up, Ross descends on him with much hushing. “Trott, no, you stay where you are! You nearly drowned, so let me do the heavy lifting.”

“I’m fine,” Trottimus begins to insist. The feeling of his lungs being hung out to dry impacts on his ability to rise to his feet. He accepts the blissfully dry towel Ross holds out to him.

Huddled on the beach, he watches Ross shake himself dry. Water rains down. Bare feet slapping the sand, Ross jogs to join Alsmiffy.

Trottimus strips out of his lab coat, shirt and boots. Getting up makes his world spin, dangerously so. He staggers towards a nearby log, parking himself on it. All his wet clothes are laid out on the wood to dry.

He fumbles his modules. All three of his surveyors spawn in a triangle. Sighing in relief that the Stunt Lads are alright, Trottimus closes his eyes. 

The sun’s out, helping speed the process of getting him dry. Those clouds on the other side of the lake and mountain range have other ideas, if the weather report’s anything to go by.

First things first. Trottimus lays out a sheet on the sand beneath the surveyors. He deactivates his surveyors. All three plummet like stones onto the sheet with a wet, scratchy sound.

Sitting cross-legged on a corner of the sheet, Trottimus begins to take them apart, following the blueprint hovering in the corner of his HUD. Parts and tools rotate through his hands like a factory machine operating on a single protocol: to break down, and upgrade.

In the background, Ross and Alsmiffy begin to lug over their haul. Leaves and wood scrape through the sand towards the fallen log where Trottimus is.

Alsmiffy gets the lot going with a match. The used, blackened stick gets tossed into his inventory’s waste tab. He throws himself down onto the log behind to Trottimus, digistructing his gas mask. Hands turn it so that it’s facing him. It’s cracked along the forehead. He examines it in the light of the fire, scowling. 

“I can’t fix this, it’s too busted,” Alsmiffy notes, fuming.

“I have superglue,” Ross offers. He lays out his suit with loving attention next to Trottimus’. Trottimus reaches over to tug his shit to one side so there’s enough room on the end for Alsmiffy.

Stripping down to his underwear, Alsmiffy carelessly tosses his wet clothes onto the log. He stands, legs braced apart like he’s ready for a duel. A stone’s flung into the lake by him. It skips for three beats before sinking. 

“Fuck! We lost our base, we lost our power core, we nearly loss Trott-” The tirade begins, directly largely at the lake. Sand gets kicked too.

Pale, almost naked and incandescent with rage, Alsmiffy stalks up and down the shoreline, hurling abuse at the sky, lake or whatever’s forced to listen. 

Ross pays no attention, pulling out Hollie’s medkit to tend to Trottimus. He scoots over to Trottimus. Trottimus bats his hands away to affix the last part into his naked surveyors. 

“What’re you doing?” Ross absently inquires, toweling down Trottimus’ back.

“Finally upgrading my surveyors.” The surveyor spits electricity like a technical backfiring, causing Trottimus to hiss as he grabs it to prevent it from plunging into the lake and killing off the lake’s inhabitants.

“But why’re you taking them apart?” Ross peeks over a shoulder. All three surveyors are gutted, every single white chassis pried off to reveal their insides. Shock cylinders clink as they roll into one another on the sheet. Trottimus tugs wires into place, deftly reworking them so that they’re all connected to one another.

He ‘hms’, disconnecting the wires and trying again. This time, he spawns additional components, working them into the surveyor’s insides. Ross helps him seal the surveyors’ shells back on, holding them down so that he can screw on the white coverings.

“Sometimes, we have to break down what we have to make it better,” Trottimus belatedly explains. He nudges Ross back, moving onto his knees. “I’m done.”

He activates all three surveyors. The three surveyors rise into the air, blue eyes lighting up as they start to spin, forming a miniature hurricane of white and blue as pieces find one another and join up. Ross gasps as the spectacle.

The three surveyors are falling apart. Alarmed, Ross opens his mouth and points- Trottimus is  _ grinning _ . Utterly unconcerned (with a proud glint in his eyes, even), he folds his arms over his bare chest. Fighting a sneeze, Trottimus keeps watching. He can’t ruin such a big moment as his children grow up.

The three surveyors vanish in a burst of light. In their place is a giant floating surveyor with three wings and an engine with a purr to rival a technical that’s fresh out of the digistruct network. An enormous blue eye (the size of a dinner plate) takes in Ross’ shock and Trottimus’ delighted expression.

“Trott, they became one!” Ross blurts. “What’d you do?”

Two beams link to him and Trottimus from the surveyor. He pets a wing, smiling. “It’ll heal all of us at once, so long as we’re close to it.” He pauses to look thoughtful. “Amongst other things.” 

At his nudging, the surveyor leaves him and Ross to cruise along the surface of the lake. A thresher lunges up from the still waters to snatch at it. Without pausing in its flight, the surveyor discharges a massive bolt of electricity at it. The dead thresher convulses before floating off.

The surveyor swings along the lake, back towards Trottimus. It disengages, separating into the original three surveyors. The three surveyors despawn.

“That’s so fucking cool.” Still awed, Ross flops onto the beach. “All I got are these.” He brandishes a clawed hands, wriggling each digit.

“Uh, Ross? At least you don’t need weapons to fight.” Trottimus inches away from the claws to pack his tools, parts and the sheet away.

Ross runs a lone claw along the sand to scratch out ‘ass’. Trottimus uses a twig to add ‘licking’ to the end. Giggling, the two begin to write all the obscene words they know besides the log.

Alsmiffy’s bare feet pause at the edge of their wordplay. “You done being giggly?” He demands. “Because I need to borrow your shit.”

“What shit?” Trottimus glances up from his incomplete and astonishingly rude word that begins with ‘c’, ends with ‘t’, and rhymes with ‘punt’. Bandits didn’t use that word lightly. Seeing that Trottimus is distracted, Ross hastily scratches it out to replace it with ‘charities’.

“Your tools, you tool!” Alsmiffy says like it’s glaringly obvious. “I want to tweak my gloves.”

“I can do it for you,” Trottimus offers, while he’s still in the mood.

Alsmiffy shakes his scrawny, ginger head. “Nope, I want to do it on my own.”

For the second time that day, and without argument, Trottimus lays out the sheet and leaves his tools out. Alsmiffy spawns his gloves, gas canisters and a translucent sheet of paper. A rock’s used to prop up the paper. It looks like Alsmiffy’s own design, carefully studied from whatever blueprints he’s come across and cobbled together (like everything else he makes).

Trottimus uses another stretch of beach to formulate a plan. Twice, he erases it. Ross attends to cooking up a meal (and shooting any threshers that are lured over). 

After the third time, Trottimus claps his hands together. “Done!”

Ross ambles over, holding up a cooking pan filled with chowder. “It just says ‘kill Sjin’,” He observes.

Alsmiffy’s by the writing so fast that he’s carved a three metre or so trench into the sand. “Oooh, tell me  _ more _ .”

“That’s right, we kill Sjin,” Trottimus flatly says. “I had ‘punch Sjin’ and ‘hit Sjin’ originally but they didn’t have the same ring to it.”

“Alright, we kill Sjin.” Ross holds his free hand out.

“And take over his shit.” Alsmiffy’s hand joins his.

“And take over Pandora.” Trottimus puts his hand on top.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Seconded.”

“Thirded.”

“How’s about we pay him a visit at Opportunity?” That’s where the office is, based off what Trottimus remembers. Maybe they’ll even get back the power core.

“Seeing as he sicced those bounty hunters on us.” Vengeance makes Ross feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

“Seems only fair to demand  _ compensation _ for damages.” Alsmiffy sighs, at what kind of compensation he can demand.

“Gear up, we move in half an hour.” Trottimus takes the chowder off Ross to divide it up.

\--

Alsmiffy, Trottimus and Ross are clustered in front of the shield that’s between them and Opportunity. It hadn’t taken them that long to walk to the nearest Fast Travel Station, thanks to a conveniently placed Catch-A-Ride. 

As planned, Alsmiffy waves the business card that’d been Sips’ in front of the scanner. It beeps. A portion of the shield disintegrates. The trio step through the created opening, distantly remembering the heist that’d happened in this city.

The city may or may not be a trap. Trottimus steps over a drying puddle by the bounty board, taking the lead. Alsmiffy and Ross fall into step on either side of him (and for one second, Trottimus feels that it’ll all be okay; something deep inside of him knows it).

The Sipsco. building admits the trio. Ross squints at the decor, raising his head to sniff the air. “ _ Somebodies _ have been  _ here _ ,” He reports in an undertone. “I know these smells.”

A noise in the hallway off to the side attracts their attention. None of the trio miss a hand dragging a closet door shut. Ross’ ears pick up the smallest whimper of fear. He strolls over to the door, yanking it open. A suited person falls out. Ketchup stains the front of their suit.

“Don’t hurt me!” They plead, flinging their arms up over their head.

“You a Sipsco. peon?” Alsmiffy softly growls, nudging them in the side with his shoe.

“Would have been ‘was’, if you hadn’t pulled me out of the closet,” The person says with a delicate sniff, eyeing Alsmiffy with the air of someone who thinks that Alsmiffy’s suit belongs in a trash compactor. A crumpled letter’s clutched in one hand. 

Alsmiffy yanks it away, eliciting a cry of surprise and a futile snatch to grab it back. “What’s this? A letter of  _ resignation  _ from the company that fucked us over? My, wouldn’t you like to keep working here while it burns down?” He sneers, holding the letter above a glove’s vent. “You might get a tidy sum if you make it back to the lake in time before you go down with this hellhole!”

“Give it back!” The person shouts, springing up. Alsmiffy smacks them down, snickering.

“Hold on.” Trottimus takes the page out of Alsmiffy’s hand. “This handwriting looks familiar.” He pulls out his ECHO device to compare it and a screenshot of a journal page.

“I wouldn’t expect you to know since you look like you can’t write,” The person retorts. They flinch when Ross wagges a claw at them.

“Sherlock?” Trottimus stares at Sherlock over the top of the page.

“How do you know me? I’ve never met you before,” Sherlock brusquely says, frowning. Ross and Alsmiffy share a mutual look of ‘what the fuck’.

“It’s me, Cam!” Trottimus leans down to help Sherlock to his feet, pressing the letter of resignation back into his hand. “I  _ know _ you from Bunkers and Badasses!”

“Sweet dear mother of…” Sherlock breathes, his eyes widening underneath his glasses. “It really is you!”

The two embrace, Trottimus keeping a small gap between their chests to avoid smearing ketchup all over his own front. “Listen, if you’re quitting, we’re after your boss-”

“You want Sjin?” Sherlock scratches his head. “Sjin’s not here, I’m afraid.”

“Dammit!” Alsmiffy nearly sets the floor on fire with a misdirected spurt of fire. “We came here for nothing!” Sherlock leaps back.

“Hey, mind the floor!” Ross smacks Alsmiffy. “And say sorry for hitting Trott’s friend!”

“Sorry,” Alsmiffy says with a malicious note. “Didn’t mean it, wouldn’t have done it if I’d known you’d known Trott.”

“It’s fine, it’s not my floor to worry about,” Sherlock hastily says, still keeping away from Ross and Alsmiffy.

“The floor’s the last thing you should be worrying about. What’s happening?” Trottimus eyes up the stairs leading up. “Why’re you hiding?”

“There are Vault Hunters here who’re taking Sjin’s laptop upstairs,” Sherlock reveals with a worried look. “If you want to know where Sjin went, go upstairs and take the laptop from them.”

“Will do.” Trottimus says, regarding Sherlock fondly. It makes Alsmiffy want to smack him.

“You didn’t hear it from me,” Sherlock warns, going back into the cupboard. He pops out a second later. “If you see a diamond cat, can you bring her to me? I hate my boss, but his cat’s an absolute darling.”

“I can’t smell her, so she must have gone off somewhere, but sure,” Ross says, having scouted out the entire lobby. He’s holding a fashion magazine. “These suits are great!”

“I recommend the custom fittings,” Sherlock pleasantly says, looking approving of Ross’ taste.

“Talk about fashion later! I got people to fucking  _ burn, _ ” Alsmiffy snaps, heading for the stairs without waiting for Ross and Trottimus.

“Cam, you keep wonderful company. I’ve heard so much about you, Ross,” Sherlock dryly says.

Ross winks at him and it’s really not because Sherlock smells  _ delicious _ thanks to the ketchup staining his front. “Depends on what you’ve heard, but I assume it must be good things.” That makes Sherlock nearly go red. Nearly.

“See you later, friend. And keep your head down, things might get  _ very _ messy.” Trottimus fistbumps Sherlock before following. Sherlock nods and returns to the safety of his closet. The trio take the stairs. 

Outside of Sjin’s office, there’s voices, indistinct until the trio draw closer. There’s no point in trying to hide their approach, so the three arm themselves. Trottimus takes the lead, Alsmiffy and Ross taking up side positions.

The trio barge in. Rythian, Ravs and Teep all raise guns to confront the trio. Trottimus, Alsmiffy and Ross rise to meet the challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (you ready to pay up?)
> 
> many thanks goes to siins, polishingopals and teagstime for being fantastic listeners and enablers! 
> 
> there’s not a lot to talk about for hatfilms; their development should be pretty self-evident. while their friendship was close to being destroyed in the first chapter, the three managed to turn it around and emerge from it stronger. 
> 
> and of course, there are new problems that emerge as a result of that. ross and alsmiffy are far too overprotective of trottimus, while alsmiffy tends to get jealous if the two get on too well with anybody else, and ross is literally terrified of hurting the other two. fortunately, the three have their own ways of dealing with it. 
> 
> this chapter of ‘what’s yours is ours’ officially ties into chapter twelve of ‘tlvh’! i’ve been planning this for a long time, so it feels good to have a lot more tie into the main fic. this is the final chapter of ross, alsmiffy and trottimus’ collective journey on pandora! as it is with everybody else’s arcs, it’ll pick up in ‘tlvh’. ‘tlvh’ is still on a break. the goal is to get through the rest of the ‘btb’ fics so that all the loose ends can be covered in ‘tlvh’.
> 
> i’ll be working on the rest of ‘a bullet with your name on it’ between the rest of those fics. teep’s fic still has two chapters left to it (which are looking pretty lengthy based on my notes), plus an epilogue. the remaining ‘btb’ fics are set to be single chapters. at least two of those will tie into each other.
> 
> thanks for reading. here’s the doodles done by the terrific siins, which you can find over [here](http://borderlandscast.tumblr.com/tagged/beyond-the-borderlands%3A-what%27s-yours-is-ours).

**Author's Note:**

> (everything has its price.)
> 
> this chapter was. something. i’ll tell you right now that hatfilms is one of the tricker groups in this au that i had trouble initially writing in terms of getting started.
> 
> I knew how I wanted to them to meet but when I got around to writing it, nothing came out the way i wanted it to. that’s writing for you. I can be satisfied with what I got down in this chapter. there’s still more to come since this fic is going to be about three chapters long, so we’re a third of the way to completing this fic and the trio’s arcs.
> 
> the three are midway through their arcs when we first meet them in ‘tlvh’ so if they seem a little off to you in this chapter, all the development is actually happening in the second chapter of ‘what’s yours is ours’.
> 
> striking a balance between light-hearted was and the subject matter that pops up in this fic was difficult. a lot of the scenes underwent massive revisions; I had to cut several planned scenes to move them to future chapters. as always, I hope i’ve managed to do it in a way that seems appropriate and not dismissive, in regards to dealing with those problems.
> 
> that said, it’s incredible how ross and Trottimus put up with Alsmiffy for so long to even consider him as a friend. alsmiffy knew what he did. it wasn’t the first time he did something like that (as implied in the scene). in fact, it was the first time Trottimus ever stood up to him, in the worst way possible, and the trio paid heavily for it, Trottimus more so than Alsmiffy and Ross. 
> 
> the question trottimus and Ross now need to answer is: do they really want Alsmiffy back in their lives, knowing that he’s capable of doing it again?
> 
> it’s hard cutting off someone who’s been a part of their lives for so long. there is no black or white answer to that. as it is in this au, that’s a difficult question to tackle.
> 
> i’ll leave it there for now. thank you for reading, as always. I plan on working on the first chapter of the teep 'btb' fic, followed by either the second chapter of the hatfilms fic or chapter ten of ‘tlvh’. doodles by the terrific siins are located over [here](http://borderlandscast.tumblr.com/tagged/beyond-the-borderlands%3A-what%27s-yours-is-ours), so check them out!


End file.
